


Repent

by valeriane



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Also Staci is there, But they're all still assholes, Cunnilingus, F/M, Jacob has feelings, John just needs to be held, Joseph is a soft boi, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, smut in chapter 11 ya'll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 75,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valeriane/pseuds/valeriane
Summary: In her dreams, she sees her; Faith, her honey hair aglow in the midnight sun, eyes bleeding green, bliss seeping between her teeth, flooding the rivers until they're full. Rook hadn't meant to kill her, hadn't wanted to choke the life from her, but what other choice had she been given? Vengeance was not a word Joseph took to lightly, but retrieving the Deputy quickly became paramount, both to protect his flock, and to steer her back onto the path of righteousness. Who better to set her back on the path to the light than Jacob who values caustic strength above all else?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is definitely a work in progress. A lot of it is already written, but I've been writing it in a non-linear fashion, so some parts might go up fairly quickly, while others might take a long time. Comments & such are always appreciated!

            She hadn’t wanted to do it. Rook had pursued Faith first because she’d imagined her the most reasonable, or at least the most susceptible to persuasion. She had not anticipated the seeds of doubt having already been buried within Faith’s mind, and that her own relentless pursuit of the fourth, adopted sibling would have served only to push her closer to Joseph.

            The Father had done nothing, it was Rook that had taken Faith to the edge, it was her _hands_ that had closed around her throat and lowered her beneath the water. By her hand, Faith had taken her last breath. By her _hand_ , her lungs had filled with bliss, and by her _grace_ Faith had slipped back into the water one final time, that green haze spilling from her lips, mingling with blood and bile as the current carried her back to God.          

            There was nothing that could be done for it, but she couldn’t help but find it painfully ironic now that their places were switched.

            _The Baptist_ had come for her in silence. A man that knew no brevity had slipped her out of the jail before anyone had even noticed she was gone, and now he stood above her, bathed in moonlight, face set flat, lips pulled into a tight line as he threaded his fingers around her throat. The beauty of John was in his conviction, his utter determination to do what he was told the moment his mind latched on to the idea. Didn’t matter if it was right or not, only that he had chosen to believe it.

            She saw that in herself. Blind faith, objectiveless dogma.

            “This will hurt.” He hissed, squeezing tight.

            She believed him.

            He allowed her one more breath before the water broke her back, enveloping her in a cocoon of bitter cold. _Winter_ had turned Hope County into a frozen wasteland, but the rivers still tumbled, their shores littered with frost. Gripping his hand was foolish, no amount of clawing at his arm would set her free, but she did it anyways, kicking in the water, and John struggled only faintly to hold her still, a passive expression swimming in and out of view as the water continued to churn.

             It was only when her lungs began to ache that he lifted her from the water, and she would have screamed into the night had her lungs not constricted in the cold. She _couldn’t_ breathe, no matter how hard she tried, gasping and wheezing like a fish out of water, but pity did not exist within his gaze. She _deserved_ it, to choke on air, to struggle for life.

            A mother hen, John clucked his tongue, observing her at arms length. “No, no, _no_ ,” Rook could not avoid his gaze, how thickly it washed over her, “still unclean.” His grip was like iron, his hands on her shoulders, fingers pressing through her flesh to the bone. Words escaped her, but her mouth gaped with biting slander, flooded with blood weeping from her teeth, and every curse and every damnation she could wish upon him she spat into the night.

            _Mercy_ did not become him; the wicked wrath of his gaze did not dissolve beneath the silky smoothness of the water when he threw her backwards again, the sudden _smack!_ of the river stealing what little air remained in her lungs. He did not cradle her in the moonlight, his eyes did not soften when she clawed at his chest, nails finding a latch among his scars, if anything, the malicious undertones deepened, the wry twitch of his lips tautened.

            Only when the void began to encroach upon her vision did he wrench her from the depths and she nearly choked on the frigid air, convulsing in shock.

            Great clouds of mist swept past her lips, and every bone in her body seemed to curl inwards as she shuddered, all feigned bravado abandoned as she squeezed her eyes shut, whispering in hallowed tones for the death of them all. Pinpricks preceded his touch, her skin alight with the strain of his grip, how he sook to reach the core of her, passage barred by the thickening ice on her flesh. If he did not kill her, the hypothermia would.

            He seemed to study her for a long time, his eyes sweeping over her face, expression passive, unimpressed with the state of her, but not entirely demeaning. But then he raised his chin, an unsatisfied smirk twisting his upper lip into a snarl as he placed a hand upon her head, intending to dunk her _again_ , yet before her ears went under, the _thump!_ of a car door echoed across the water, startling a duck or two drifting not too far by, and John held her in place, neither drowning nor breathing, trapped somewhere unholy in between.

            “You mock the cleansing?”

            _Joseph._

            “No, I—”

            “We must love them, John, for all that they are.” Joseph lifted his hands, rosary clattering in the breeze, his fingers crooked in the air as he gestured to her. “Bring her to me.”

            Rook could do little but shuffle through the water stiffly, joints locked, bones grinding down upon each other as she stepped out of the water, John’s hand on her shoulder, leading her forward with quiet unease. He did not seem keen to let her go, relinquishing her only upon Joseph’s insistence.

            The Father’s gaze was not to be ignored, and he captured her attention with painful ease, his hands on her shoulders, fingers grazing her neck. She didn’t like the way he held her, how his hands burned upon her bare skin, but she did not have the strength nor the consciousness to fight him back.

            A hum preceded his words, gentle and lulling, but predatory, thickly dark, a cunning slyness that hung on the tip of his tongue; “after all that you have done, even you are not beyond redemption. The path to salvation is still available to you, but only you can seek it, and when you are cleansed of sin, all those burdens you bear—all the pain, the _hatred_ , the wrath—will become silent within you.”

            “How can you be so certain?”  

            “Because you are _me_ , child, just a few years removed. This darkness will pass, and within you new light will come, fresh faith for all to see.”

            “You give her too much credit.” John grit from behind her, but if Joseph heard him, he refused to respond, his attention fully upon her.

            “Take her to Jacob. The Soldier will see her renewed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We gotta climb through the mud before we can get to the kink. Dirty mountain man makes an appearance, some uncomfortable situations follow, but this isn't really a nice story. There's some mild blood in this chapter, pain and starvation. Fluff will exist, but the Seeds have some issues to work through.

            The Whitetails grazed the sky with the height of sentinels, their backs bowed to bear the weight of the world. Upside down, they seemed austere, the teeth of the earth set to swallow the sky. Maybe it was beautiful, or perhaps she was dying. Joseph Seed had seen her away with kindness, a kiss upon the brow, the touch of fire beneath her chin, but John was less forgiving, though she counted it a mercy that he’d dumped her on the backseat of his truck rather than in the bed of it. She lie on her back, feet to God, hands cuffed beneath her, neck craned so that she could see out the windshield, the fuzzy outline of John’s face dipping in and out of view as he wove them through the mountains.        

            She couldn't help but think it would've been easier to fly.

            He didn't speak to her, not like she had _expected_ him to, but she hadn't anticipated the _silence_ either, the utter weight of it as it sank onto her chest. He played no music, hummed no tunes, rattled off no list of her sins. Every horror she had anticipated in him, from hymns to curses, he disavowed, opting instead for quiet revelry, and she _loathed_ it.

            It would be easier if he blamed her. If he rallied against her in tears and spittle and cutting words, but _no_. The only moment in which she wished to hear him, he restrained himself.

            “How much further?” She asked.

            “You’ll be lucky if he kills you, you know.” John offered in response, the glint of his eyes just barely visible in the light of his dash. “That will be his mercy to you, a quick death, but he’ll make you earn it.”

            “That’s not an answer.”

            “A healthy dose of anticipation should do wonders for that temperament of yours.”

            “You hate me.” She nodded in acceptance. “I know, but—”

            “Hate is too gentle a word, my darling.” He laughed, a clawing, sickening sound. “Loathe, despise, detest, _oh_ , abhor, those are all much more fitting.”

            Rook opened her mouth again to speak, to attempt to reason with him, but resolved to endure the rest of the ride in silence, turning her eyes to the ceiling, watching the shift and wiggle of the occasional shadow as it streaked across the ceiling. It was only when they began to slow that Rook truly began to worry. _Jacob_ was not a man to be trifled with, though her dealings with him had all been elementary, brief skirmishes with his wolves at the edge of his territory, his penchant for violence and mayhem was well known to her.

            “If I were you, I’d start praying _now_.”

            “But you aren’t me.”

            “For which I am _mighty_ thankful.”

            She wasn’t sure if it was John that grabbed her by the ankles and wrenched her from the truck, but that didn’t really seem to matter on the march up the bend to St. Francis’. Its name burned bright in firelight, glimmering above a sea of decay, a paragon of fortitude beneath the now moonless night. Clouds had settled in, low and heavy, burdened with moisture, and the first snow in Hope County began as she made her way past the threshold. Every bone in her body told her to _run_ , to flee the moment she could, but no such moment arrived as she slipped deeper and deeper into the compound.

            What struck her first was the smell. The awful, _rotting_ stench of decay trapped between the buildings. Bodies on top of bodies, maimed and ruined, hanging from lamp posts, strung up upon the walls, accompanied always by one word; _weak._

Somewhere in the back of her head, Rook sought to find humor in the situation, to make light of the corpses, of the blood she trod on, so deeply thick it turned the earth to sludge, but could find nothing within her to brighten the darkness. Joseph had condemned her to hell, and John had so willingly delivered her to the devil’s doorstep. She _wanted_ to hate them for it, and she _did_ , but after all she had done…vengeance was not beyond them, nor did she expect it to be.

            Twisting hallways led her deeper into St. Francis, the hands on her shoulders now unbearably tight, and she was forced to sit, pressed down into a chair with painful ease. The baptism had left her weak. Not broken, but in a position of _reset_. Zip-ties bound her wrists and ankles, and then…then they left, and she was _alone_ in the darkness, heart pounding into her throat, muscles tensed, prepared for any horror other than the petulance of vacancy. At any second she was sure he would appear, slinking out of the shadows, bursting through the door, fucking _descending from the ceiling_ , but he never came. Not even when the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the wall over her shoulder did he arrive, nor when the dawn molded into dusk, and the moon supplanted the sun, burning her with iridescence.

            She did not sleep. At least, not at _first_ , and no amount of struggling against the ties proved useful, if anything it only served to wear her done, cutting down to the bone with all the aggression of a dull butter knife. In her time beneath John’s thumb she had not eaten. He hadn't allowed it, insisted that she be given to the waters an empty vessel. He’d given her to Jacob weakened, unready, _unprepared_ , and every moment she spent struggling against her restraints was energy wasted for a fight she knew to be coming. Time took on a non-linear relegation. Sometimes she slept at midday, others at dusk, rarely ever at night. She felt that to be the weakest time, the _strangest_ time when the walls of St. Francis were alive with the howls of wolves and the blood-curdling pleas of dead men. Some begged. Some shrieked. Some said nothing, but she heard their ends all the same. The rattling  _bang_ of a rifle, the guttural moaning of a slit throat, the pained whispering of silent starvation. 

            _Hunger_ quickly became a problem, and thirst was not far behind. Silence, she could endure, with enough convincing she felt certain she could endure _anything_ , but _thirst?_ The wretched growling of her stomach as it turned against her, clawing away at her insides to earn her a meager fill, to subsist, to _survive_ , the unbearable thickness within her throat, dry as bone when she tried to swallow. _That_ , she found nigh intolerable.

            On the fourth day, or maybe it was the _sixth_ —time passed in odd swaths when distraction could only be found in the riddled ridges of your boots—she began to hum. Soft tunes, odd and out of key, ragged against her cracked throat, but enough to offer some _comfort_. She stopped only when her breath began to grow weak and resumed whenever she had the strength, but the darkness in her periphery grew closer with each day, the peeling walls tenting in as she searched for ways to keep herself distracted, but constantly came up short.

            But then she began to wonder, fretful worries that dogged her weeping mind as it oozed out of her ears, fleeing her mortal coil in search of a more suitable host, one that wasn’t so foolish as to get themselves trapped in a room with one window and no food. Were they coming for her? The Sheriff? Addie? Sharky? He would’ve thrown himself to the angels to protect her if she’d asked, so why hadn’t he come? A week was long enough to form a plan. A week was long enough to _act_. Maybe Joseph was right, blindly prophetic, his one enduring trait. No one was coming for her. No one would save her.

            “Stop.” She was not sure if she had spoken the word aloud, but she _did_ bite at herself, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth, chewing hard enough to draw blood, fresh relief from the chaos of her own head. She was alive, in pain, but _alive_ and if they knew that, then they were coming for her. She was certain of it.

            But then the days grew longer, and her humming grew dryer. The zip-ties dug into her wrists the most, her ankles thankfully covered just barely by her pant legs, but sticky pooling of blood near her elbows began to itch as it dried. Her tailbone hurt from how she sat, the curve of her spine so tight that even shifting from left to right, adjusting the pressure she took on he ties was painful enough to bring tears to her eyes, and _terrible_ tears they were. It was mostly salt by now, the remnants of her insides as her body slowly tore itself apart.

            Part of her grew restless, even as her muscles decayed, atrophying due to lack of use, and she began to rock back and forth within the chair, enough to lift the legs from side to side, enough to relieve the strain on her back, but she rocked too far, and the chair listed left, balancing for a panicked moment, before it clattered to the floor, sending her tumbling with it, and her head collided with the linoleum with a sickening _thwump!_ hard enough to fill her admittedly already dim vision with fizzy, ephemeral looking spots. How long she stayed like that she did not know, but at best, she figured it was a few hours, all the blood in her head migrating to the left, sliding along her skull alongside her brain.

            She must've slept, or slipped unconscious, just for a few  _moments_ , but when her vision cleared, she was not alone.

            Boots, combat ready, splattered with mud and blood, tightly laced and lovingly worn, stood still before her eyes. “There she is.” That _drawl_ , thicker than molasses, gruffer than Joseph’s caramel cadence, but profoundly concise, direct, _objective_. She knew who he was, no amount of hunger could scorch the memory of his face from her mind. He’d stood behind Joseph the night this had all started, eyes aflame, expression withdrawn. “Get her off the ground.”

            Shaking hands maneuvered Rook into a marginally more upright position, panting grunts puffing over her shoulder as the faceless hands struggled. She was still attached to the seat by her ankles and her wrists, and she struggled to clear her vision, her head swam in deprivation, the undoing of all her core necessities. When he spoke, she barely heard him, green eyes trained on his broad hands, riddled in scars, cradling a steel canteen with all the tender affection one might bestow upon an infant. More so than ever, her mouth felt _dry_.

            “Barely there, ain’t ya?” A hand passed in front of her face, stealing her attention, and Rook glanced up, meeting his gaze with fearless abandon. Wild hatred burned in her eyes, a wrathful glaze that surpassed the echoes of hunger. “ _There_ , that’s what I wanted to see. No fear, no burden, only _purpose_. I have what you want, and you’d kill me for it if you could, wouldn’t you?” He brought the canteen to his lips, teasing, _jesting,_ but her understanding of his tactics did not make it easier to watch him swallow it’s contents down, not when her body shrieked for it. Had her hands not been indisposed, she would have used them to claw out his eyes. “Joseph sent you to me because you were without guide, wild, unrestrained, killing without purpose.”

            “ _Please_ ,” she was not above begging, not above reduction, but he lifted a finger, staring down his nose at her, a slight quirk burrowing in the corners of his lips.

            “I shall guide you back to your path, _pup_. You’ve lost your way, but it’s not too late. By my hand you will return to Joseph a better woman, assured of her purpose. And, if you refuse,” he rose above her, a god in his own right, the canteen dangerously low above her lips, hanging in midair as he tipped it over her face, “or if you _fail_ , you will perish here, and the wolves will ensure that no trace of you remains.”

            He tipped the canteen, and she drank all that he would allow, so much that she felt she would drown. It ran rivers down her chin, a wasteful oversight, but he refused to close the distance, keeping her apart from the lip, forcing her to struggle to catch even the slightest bit of water. When it was all said in done, she was sure she’d had no more than a shotglass, but she was _parched_ of it. No amount of water would sate her needs. 

            “She’s ready to move on. Put her with the others. They’ll be glad for more company.” Jacob moved toward the door, boots scuffing the ground as he walked, before he turned, finger raised, but he didn’t seem to be pointing at her. “I’m watching, Peaches.”

            “Yes sir.”        

            The door clicked closed, and Staci Pratt swam into view, all matted hair and wild eyes, bleeding from  _somewhere_ , but she could not see where.

“We don’t have a lot of time.” He muttered, hands on her wrists, and for a moment she thought he was going to set her free, but that hope sank when he met her gaze, shaking his head. “I can’t do anything to help you.”

            “Staci—”

            “Not yet, at least. Jacob has eyes _everywhere,_ and if I— _disobey_ , he’ll know.” The chair tipped back, and Staci groaned at the effort of pulling her along, their conversation hidden by the loud bellowing of the chair as he dragged her out of the room and down the hall. “You have to be strong. Don’t be weak, Anna. _Don’t be weak._ ”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “He’s going to test you. You won’t know it, but when it happens—the song,” he drifted off, lips quivering shut as they passed a throng of soldiers. A free hand, that was all she needed. Just one hand to steal a gun and…and, well, that part was easy, it was the freedom part she'd have to work on. “Strong. You have to be strong.”   

“All you have to do is cut me loose. You can lie, say I forced you to do it—”

            “He won’t believe me.”

            “I can take you with me.”

            “I don’t believe _you_.”

            Rook gawked up at him, jaw clenched tight, but eyes as wide as saucers, but there was no lie in his eyes. He didn’t believe her, didn’t _believe_ that she could protect him, that she could help him. 

            “We’re in no position to move. Not yet.” The chair stopped moving, and Staci stood over her again, but this time she viewed him fully. A whelp of a bruise kissed his eye, purple and blue, twinged green at the edges, his lip was split in a few places, and his nose…she did not remember it being so crooked. “I’ll figure this out. Trust me.”

            She could do little beyond nod, heart racing, struggling to buy precious time with him. His fingers were on her wrists, tapping gently. It was the closest she imagined he could come to comfort without earning a punishment. 

            “What is he going to do to me?” She asked, expression plain, her face pale as the snow that gathered on the window sill, but before he could answer, the door opened, and Staci shuffled toward it, head bowed as he walked, a slight limp in his gait. She wanted to call for him, to shriek after him, but she’d only just regained her breath, and what good would the screaming do? 

            Putting her faith in Staci seemed a weak plan, but it was enough to know that he was alive.

            It was enough to know that she was not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a doozy! I got a little carried away, but this chapter is pretty mellow. Trials, some soft Pratt because that boy needs help, a little expansion on our lovely Deputy, a bit of Jacob, a smidge of the Father mixed in, with just a spritz of classical conditioning to bring it all together. There's a hint at sexual assault in the beginning, but it's nothing graphic, so you should be a-okay. 
> 
> I'm so glad that ya'll are liking this so far! Next chapter will be very Jacob focused, so hopefully I do his character justice. I might have to break it up into a few parts, but we'll see how it looks when I finish tying it up. 
> 
> Additionally, if you have anything you'd like me to write, let me know! I enjoy a challenge, and am always on the fluff train. Thanks for reading!

_Smoke_ , a pungent haze of honeysuckle sweetness, roses in midday, the taste of thorns in her throat, weaving through her ribs, strangling her alive. She was _home_ , bathed in the shade of towering mountains, not so unlike the Whitetails, but these were familiar, well tread, well loved. The world was cottony soft, tendrils of grass wrapped around her ankles, threatening to pull her under, to drown her in a lazy summer heat. The Bliss had never offered her such peace, and so she settled on a memory, a _dream_.

            Her cheeks grew warm in the midday sun, the fuzzy glow of pollen a golden wreath about the world. Anna could have stayed there forever, fully knowing that beyond the twitch of her eye only ruin and decay waited for her. She’d rather bend at the mercy of the mountains forever, asleep in a field of wildflowers until the world ceased turning, but then…

            _Weeping_. Weak, wheezing sobs, snakes in the grass, wriggling into her ears with painful voracity. She sat up, a sunflower among the weeds, dark hair beaten a coppery gold in the sunlight, and she saw herself, only shorter, smaller, _younger_.

            “Stop crying.” She tried to say, but her tongue had fled her mouth, leaving her gaping at the shadow, but she tried again, screeching into the void, but nothing escaped her, no meep or peep of sound. “You’re going to make it worse. _Stop crying_.”

            Hands on her ankles, nails in her hips, wetness on her cheeks, a ramshackle fort emerged from the flowers. She’d built it herself. Made it her sanctuary, painted flowers on its walls and filled it to bursting with the essence of her childhood, but the door was gone, pulled off by the hinges. Barren, _empty_ , a rapturous heat in her neck, crawling up toward her ears, seething out her tears.

            _Shame_.

            “How could you let this happen? How _dare_ you let this happen?”

            Anna awoke with a gurgling scream, kicking out a leg so hard it snapped her restraint, her foot hurtling directly into Jacob Seeds shin. Even in the midmorning glimmer, eyes clouded by tears, sweat and blood, she could see his disappointment. _Weak_.

            “Even now, even as your muscles decay, eating themselves alive to keep you conscious, you possess the strength to flee. Pity you used it on a dream.” He chided gruffly, placing his hands on either side of the chair, gripping the arm rests tightly and pulling her forwards. _Blue_ , his eyes were the same shade of blue as his brothers’, albeit somewhat lighter. They seemed _clearer_ , brighter, almost, his face so close to hers she could feel the ragged scrape of his beard against her chin.

            She’d grown used to his rhetoric, his lectures, his skewed _dogma_. Sacrifice the weak, cull the herd, bleed out the corruption. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was the scraps they fed her that turned her stomach inside out, or maybe it was genuine _belief_ , but time had turned her weak to him. She didn’t agree, at least, not _fully_ , but it was becoming more and more difficult to silence his growing presence at the back of her head.

            “Eyes on me, pup.” Fingers snapped between her eyes, and she blinked, jerking backwards, gazing up at him with a mixture of horror and reverie. “ _Better._ I’ve got a mission for you, a _trial_.”

            “What kind of trial?” She croaked, but he ignored her, his focus, instead, pouring into a tiny box he clenched between his hands, blunt fingernails tracing its edges for a moment before he began to turn a pin, cranking a motor within.

            “Even the weak have a purpose, _pup_. Joseph sent you to me so that we could uncover that purpose, but I had to set you straight first, break you down, strip you back to bone, and put you _back_ on the path you were meant to walk. Do not stray again.” The box creaked open, and for a moment she heard _nothing_ , but then her brain began to leak out of her ears. It was pain unlike any other pain, seizing her muscles until every bone in her body shook with the effort of keeping herself upright. 

            She felt in a _haze_ , thicker than tar, like breathing in honey. It felt like the bliss, but less comforting, more like drowning, like she’d left her eyes behind on the chair when _he’d_ cut her free, alongside her brain, her heart or any sort of self-consciousness or reasoning. The _song_ , it rattled against her ribs, low and hollow, pitching and whining at odd paces, but the words became her, undid her, _reset_ her. Blood roared in her ears, the pounding of her heart so wild and untrained she felt it might shatter thorough her ribs if she were not careful, and the edges of her vision bled red, burning bright as her stomach knotted, the thrill of the chase in her veins.

            “ _Go_.”

            A _mission_ , she had a task to complete, but was blissfully unaware of the goal. But her purpose wasn’t to _question_ it was to _succeed_ , all else felt unnecessary, heavy burdens that would only impede her duty. He was relying on her, depending on her to do what needed to be done, and she would prove worthy of his trust, prove _worthy_ of his choice.

            The weight of a gun in her hand was comforting, and she raised it in confidence as she walked through the halls of St. Francis. The walk wasn’t familiar, but she felt very little fear each time she rounded a corner, his breath upon her neck, the weight of his _affection_ burning bright in her eyes. Soldier’s, both Resistance and Peggie alike, tumbled like dominos in her wake, but their bodies never collided with the floor. They dissipated in clouds of dust, great bursts of ashen disappointment.

            “ _Good_ ,” he encouraged, his praise escalating with each target she hit, “ _excellent._ _Yes, sacrifice the weak_.”

            It felt a dream. His admiration nourished her, wet her lips like the sweetest of wines, but it was never enough. He could drown her in it, and it would never sate her thirst. But it wasn’t him, only his words, only the joy of feeling his approval, the absolute _pleasure_ of it but then—then—

            “ _Perfect_.”

            The world slowed, red bleeding into gray, the saturation of the world going from luminous to grayscale, seeing and unseeing as she returned to herself. She didn’t even realize she was being carried until she was coughing up bile onto herself, watching the ground pass beneath her, limp legs dangling behind her. There was a strain in her shoulders, a pull, her arm wrapped tightly around someone who barely seemed sturdier than herself.

            “Don’t struggle.” Pratt whispered, his hand tightening on her waist as she regained the use of her legs, but her knees were still weak, resembling jelly more than anything else.

            “Staci,” she coughed on the taste of her tongue, sour and acidic, “where are you taking me?”

            “You’ll see.” He paused. “You did well.”

            “Did well?”

            “You passed your first trial, but the next one is coming. He’s putting you through them quick, faster than most. Don’ ask me, I don’t know why—Joseph, _maybe_ , maybe he’s lookin’ to prove something.” His expression was distant, eyes flicking back and forth, checking their back, watching their path. They were surrounded by cages, some empty, some full, some some stuffed with bones and others with living men and women, though ‘living’ was a term she used lightly. They were alive, but they sure as hell weren’t ‘living’. “Doesn’t matter,” with his foot, Pratt nudged a cage door open, prying her arm from his shoulder, stuffing her in, but she didn’t fight back, “you need to be strong.”

            “I can’t do that again,” she bit back, suddenly now very aware of her body, of the splitting ache in her skull, of the powder burns on her hands, the blistering ache of acid in her throat, “it’ll kill me, Staci. I _can’t_ do that again.” She pawed at the bars, clutching them weakly, green eyes gleaming not with tears, but stinging fear. The Bliss had rent her immobile for days, but this…she could already feel her bones locking up, the shameful taste of withdrawal on her tongue.

            “You don’t get to choose.” He snapped at her, quickly lowering his voice. “You have to be strong, don’t be weak, Anna.” Pratt hissed at her through the bars, spittle flinging from his pursed lips, knuckles whiter than snow as he leaned toward her, the heat of his breath stinging her bitten skin. “ _Don’t be weak._ ” Shadows stirred in her periphery, his fingers clutching at hers where they overlapped on the bar, and he shuddered away in Jacob’s wake.

            “Get outta here, Peaches.” He grumbled. “You’ll scare her away.” She hadn’t imagined Jacob Seed capable of humor, yet that _seemed_ a joke, or as close to it as he could get. Bright eyes studied her freely, his gaze untampered and unrestrained. It went where it liked, picking her apart, seeking to slip beneath her skin and undo her entirely. He was searching for weakness, painful shames he could exploit. “You have a visitor.”

            She knew better than to ask who, and simply resigned to the anticipation, hands still wrapped around the bars, and Joseph slunk out of the shadows, gilded in reverence, his hands outstretched. He met Jacob first, hands on his biceps, foreheads pressed together, and her mouth ran dry at the thought. Not even Staci touched her with such kindness.

            “ _Anna_ ,” the way he spoke her name, as though it were perfect, as though it were holy, brought warmth to her belly, the sort that flooded her veins in golden sunshine, “I know you are in pain. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh, hmm?” Weary fingers searched out her own, and he took her hands in his, the feel of fire in his palms, setting her skin aflame with the barest of grazes. “You are on the path to salvation. I can see it, in your eyes, the veil begins to lift, and the sins of the world begin to fall away.”

            She wanted to speak, to push him away, to tell him to shove that self-righteous rhetoric right up his _pious ass,_ but found she couldn’t, the words trapped in her throat, buried somewhere beneath her tongue. In his hands, she felt _safe_ , at ease for the first time in what felt like months, and beneath his gaze, she felt purpose, a rising sense of belonging.

            “I know what you’re feeling.” His voice was low now, his face no more than a breath away from her own, she had to fight not to smile when his beard tickled her upper lip. She wondered briefly what it would feel like to press herself against him, to feel his forehead against her own, his hand in her hair, cradling her against him. “I know that fear, that uncertainty, the realization that all you’ve known is a lie, smoke and mirrors to keep the truth hidden from you.”

            “ _Yes_.” The word slipped from her lips without her speaking it, and he smiled at her, folding her hands in his as he pushed them together.

            “I will pray that you maintain the strength to continue this path. The will of the Lord can be difficult to endure, but He has put you here for a reason. He would not have guided you to Jacob without purpose, be certain of that.”

            When he dropped her hands, she almost wept, fingers wriggling uncertainly in the cold, open air as he turned from her, returning to his brother, leaving her alone in the cage at the mercy of the deepening night. Hours passed in which she knelt in the mire, forehead pressed against the bars, muttering out her disappointment in herself.

            She worked hard to convince herself that Joseph was lying, that his words were poison, and that, in his heart, he only wanted to see her suffer, but for all that she had done, for every _sin_ she had committed against him, every horror and every terror, he had not raised a hand to her. He had come to her, instilled his faith within her, and yet he had asked for nothing in return. Even if God did not speak to him directly, perhaps his world was a _better_ one.

            Jacob returned to her at dawn, music box in hand, and before she gathered the strength to muster an argument, to bite back against him, the world became slow again, and her ears flooded with the rushing of blood, the thunderous pounding of her heart.

            _The second trial._

            It felt like dying. If the first run had been disorienting, then this was blinding. Her knees were in her throat, every step misplaced and wrong, yet she progressed at a practiced speed. She didn’t have to think much about it. Left, right, up, _behind_. Another gun, the next room, slide, side-step, sweep, punch, shoot, shoot, _shoot_ , kill, kill, _kill._ Only his voice remained the same, goading her on through the thick mist, soft and heady, but strict, the affection of a disappointed father. Nothing she did was enough to please him, yet she found herself seeking his approval regardless, striving for the apex of his love. 

            “ _Don’t stop._ ” He’d encourage. “Good. Perfect. Excellent.”

            She liked the way praise rolled from his tongue, the harsh uptick of his t’s, how they clicked against the roof of his mouth. She carried them with her as she moved from cover to cover, arm raised in confident repose. A bullet here, a bullet there, quick and painless, they vanished into smoke and dust, evaporating into thin air.

            _Practice_ , it was all just a trial.

            “Keep going,” he breathed, “make no pause for them.”

            She did not want to disappoint, marching on to the gate, the final room, her _last_ enemy in the bloody hellscape, but when she raised her gun it _screamed_ , bellowed at her to wait, to _stop_. Something was wrong, very wrong, but when her hand fell he seethed.

            “Do it. Fulfill your purpose.”

            “I don’t—” Her hand was shaking so _strangely_ that the gun in her hand began to clatter with every tremor. Against her will, her arm shot up, aiming with confidence, and her expression _reflected_ that. She _wanted_ to please him, to finish the job, to serve her purpose, but she could not bear to do so, not when the faceless man wept for mercy, pleading for forgiveness.

            “ _Do it_.”

            She didn’t recognize it when she shot them between the eyes. Her hand moved of its own accord, muscles responding on pure instinct.

            “ _Sufficient._ ”

            And the room exploded into dust.

            Blood flooded her mouth, the sweet tang of copper against her tongue, spilling out through the corner of her lips, a veritable pool of it billowing out beneath her cheek. Open eyes, blind and unseeing, settled on the face before her. A man unfamiliar to her by name, but friendly in face. He’d fed her by hand no more than a few days ago.

            “Christ, what happened to you?” Heavy footfalls preceded his voice, but the cool pressure of his words upon her back still managed to undo her. “Bit your own tongue to wake up, did you?” Jacob pushed a finger to her dry lips, peeling them back, opening old wounds as he stretched them wide, as though he were studying the mouth of one of his hounds. Had she been of a better mind, she would’ve bitten him. “Smart reflex. Too bad it didn’t work.”

            “Is she—”

            “Put her back in the cage. She’ll want to be home.”

            “Yes sir.”

            Staci’s familiar weight fell upon her, the squeeze of his hands methodical, but comforting. He didn’t lift her with ease, but he did his best, muttering for her to use her own strength as he would not be able to support her the entire way. His limp had gotten worse. Jacob was watching them, she knew it in the tingle that wriggled at the back of her neck, but she could not see him, not even the glint of his eye she so usually saw glimpsing over her from the shadows.            

            “Best keep up, Anna.” Staci whispered, his tone hollow and dry. “He’s got more in store for you tomorrow. I'd tell you if I knew, but—he needs to slow down. He could break you like this, and then what would he do? Joseph wouldn't be pleased."

            “Why?” She croaked, her head lolling on his shoulder as he shuffled her outside, his arm now snuggly wrapped around her waist.

            “He intends to _keep_ you. I overheard them speaking about _something_. Your name came up a lot. Jacob didn’t seem happy.”

            “Is he ever?”

            “Now _isn’t_ the time for jokes.” Mud squelched beneath her boots, the familiar _stench_ of the cages flooding her nose with painful rejection. Her stomach flopped. If there had been anything left in it, she would have wretched. “He’ll come for you in the morning. Be ready. Be _strong_.”

            “Staci—”

            “I can’t stay. I’ve said too much already.”

            “ _Be careful_.”   

            That brought him pause, a dangerous flicker in his eye when he turned to lock the cage door. Fingers wiggled around the bar, and she touched hers to his for but a moment, the very tips of their fingers interlocking for what seemed a second and felt a lifetime. The connection was not electric, it did not make her crumble with want, but it was enough to stoke the fire in her belly that Joseph had started. She _needed_ to be touched, to be held, to be _loved_ , by anything or anyone, but she sincerely doubted it to be a possibility in such a place.  

            “I have to go.”

            He _had_ to leave, she did not blame him entirely, but that did not cease her throat from swelling closed, nor the tears from welling in her eyes. She bit them back, choked them down with all her might, but the _anger_ , the _fear_ , it boiled within her, an unholy vitriol that could not be shuttered away with the rest of her secrets somewhere dark and cold within her heart.   

            In the sullen darkness, surrounded by whelping, whimpering initiates and howling judges, Anna wept for herself, for what she had become, for all that she had left behind, and everything that she would need to be to survive.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be real with ya'll, this chapter fucking sucked to write. Something about it just felt very off to me, so I'll probably revisit it in the future to deal with the pacing and some of the errors I couldn't resolve. The next part is written (mostly) so I didn't want to keep delaying because I was having issues with a few sections. 
> 
> Jacob catches a feeling (only one) in this chapter, Anna gets brave, there's a bit of blood but nothing exceptionally graphic, and shirtlessness? Next time will be a bit more Jacob, and then a short break with our favorite problem child. It's up to you to guess who.

            “Get up.”

            Anna had tried to sleep sitting up so that she would not slip into the mud in her struggle to regain some semblance of strength before the dawn, but it had been difficult not to slide onto her hip during the night. She did not need a mirror to feel the clumps of mud trapped within her hair. Jacob stood above her, boot against the cage, tapping gently, as though to rise her kindly, but there was no mirth in his gaze, no tenderness to behold in his rapturous stare.

            “Sleep well?”  

            She didn't answer. She knew better than to answer.

            “We’ve got a mission.”

            “What—”

            “No, no.” He held up a finger as she struggled to her feet, and she could see Pratt leering over his shoulder, his hands twisting nervously in front of himself, but he avoided her eyes, pretending to be more interested in the peaking of the sun above the Whitetail’s than he was in her. She would have thought him cowardly, but she could barely stand to glance upon Jacob’s face, let alone match his gaze. Perhaps that was how Pratt felt when looking at her. “What did I _say_ about your wandering eyes?”

            “You didn’t—” She began to protest, an earnest gripe on her tongue, but he stamped it out beneath his heel.

            “Eyes on me.” He said, careful to annunciate every word with patient clarity. “Eli’s on the move. He ain't cornered, not yet, but he _will be_. Our contacts on the inside have gone dark. Snuffed out, if Eli got smart, but they've given us just enough information to cut him off. This is our chance to put an end to this little uprising altogether, and you’re going to help me do it. Such is the will of the Father.”

            “ _No_.” The words came to her before she knew she’d spoken them, but she steeled her jaw against her better judgement, not necessarily eager for a fight, but prepared for it.

            Jacob hummed, a characteristic she’d only ever seen in Joseph, but in him it was darker, lower, grating like gravel against his lungs. “What makes you think you’ve got a choice?”

            “There’s always a choice.”

            “Not for a tool. They serve their purpose, regardless of want, but if you are so desperate to cling to the illusion of choice, I’d be happy to give you options.” He didn’t sound happy, if anything the malice in him seemed to double, but in his eyes, she saw no wrath, an observation that both bemused and terrified her. “You can come with me of your own regard, serve your purpose, and return to your cage to await further orders with the knowledge that you’ve served the Father well, _or_ ,” his hand hovered over his jacket pocket for a moment, fingers tracing the edge before dipping in, retrieving the music box, “I’ll convince you the _old-fashioned way_.”

            Common sense behooved her to comply, but it was Pratt that sealed her choice. Over Jacob’s shoulder he cringed, perhaps not intentionally, but the sight of the box seemed to make him curl inward, more so than she did, his clenched hands wrapping ever tighter about themselves.

            “What did you need me to do?”

            “Atta girl.” He gripped her shoulder through the bars, shaking her roughly. Was it _praise_ or dominion? The squeeze of his fingers suggested the latter, yet her heart sang for his touch, ravenous tingles running up and down her arms, begging for more. If there were no bars between them, she would have leapt upon him, and buried herself within his chest.

            Was it possible to be starved of such a thing?

            When Joseph touched her, it was with grace. He set flame to the nerves beneath her flesh and watched her burn with all the smug satisfaction she could endure, but _Jacob_ had only ever touched to hurt. His grip was like iron, firm and unrelenting, meant to make her bow, to submit to his pressure. He relinquished her with a push, and the cage door swung open.

            What would the sheriff say if he saw her like this? Struggling to keep up with Jacob’s stiff steps, so far apart that her hips ached if she attempted to match him in gait, so she settled for meeting his pace, taking twice as many steps just to maintain a position as his shadow. She scuttled behind him like a broken pup, his favorite degradation. At first, the name hadn’t bothered her, but he’d refused any other title. Neither Deputy, nor Rook, only _pup_. He found her harmless.

            Whitehorse would tell her to stop fucking around, to get her ass in gear and get out, no matter the stakes, but escape was _impossible_. He’d built a cage _just_ for her in his words, with a lock that knew no key, but would take no blood. Escape was the light at the end of a tunnel she’d spent her entire life struggling through, and now Jacob had set it on it’s end, sending her back to the bottom to stew in the mire that rightfully awaited her.

            “Don’t get distracted.” Jacob chided, face set flat, expression withering, “you’ll need to be present for this.”

            “Are you going to give me a gun?”

            “ _Patience_.” He hissed. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

            A jeep door swung open, and he paused for her, holding it back with his shoulder, gesturing inwards with his open arm, and she ascended in sloppy grace, wedged into the backseat between a backpack and a soldier she did not know. She’d been aware of her _state_ before, the cracking mud on her cheeks, the sloshing of perpetually warm liquids in the soles of her boots, but such close quarters made it even more difficult to ignore.

            Out of curiosity, she sniffed herself, bringing rise to a tearful grimace, and Jacob glanced back at her through the rearview mirror, a bemused sort of lilt lifting his eyebrows. He said nothing, but she could not help but feel as though he was laughing at her in the only way he knew how to.

            They drove for what felt like hours, time that Anna spent whittling away the remnants of a scab on her knuckles. She hadn’t realized how badly her body hurt until she was out of the mud. Softness reminded her of how raw her joints were, the places where bone had begun to splinter beneath the weight of her own body.

            ‘Don’t be weak’, she reminded herself.

            “You do as you’re told, perform your duty well, and there’ll be no need for convincing.” Jacob was speaking to her over his shoulder. His mannerisms seemed different in the jeep, not necessarily relaxed, but placated by some willowy softness. His hands did not _grip_ the wheel, but rather cradled it, his chin turned up, but his neck relaxed, the crane of it almost _soft_. “Understood?”

            “Yes.” She nodded, eyes cast out the window, watching with peaked curiosity as an elevated platform rose up among the trees, the sort used by hunters in the consideration of big game. Where were they? A question she would not need to ask if she’d been more attentive to the path they’d taken, but, in all fairness, her knowledge of the Whitetails was pathetically slim compared that of the Henbane, or even Holland Valley. Jacob’s holdings had always been beyond her grasp, and now she was sinking in them.

Anna made the climb first at Jacob’s behest, but when she settled in against the tree, the grit of gravel and roll of dirt caught her attention. The jeep had left them, and she was alone with Jacob in the woods, and he glared right back at her when she looked to him for answers, her eyes much wider than she had intended them to be.

            “Don’ give me that look, pup.”

            “What look?”

            “Like you’re thinkin’ about pushing me. It’d hurt, but it wouldn’t put me down.” He pushed a rifle into her hands, and she fought not to grin at the familiar weight, the absolute comfort of it in her hands. “Bliss bullets. Can’t do much harm, but it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

            “You don’t trust me.”

            “Would you?”

            “Why are we alone?” She redirected, arms open as he tossed a ramshackle pack her way. Green camo and loose straps, heavy enough to weigh down a bull, but she could bear it, if only to spite him. He was testing her, he was _always_ testing her.

            “Multiple vantage points. Gotta have eyes _everywhere_ if you want to match Eli’s level of paranoia.” And he left it at that.

            Midday bled into evening, that barren sort of winter night that stained the heavens purple and gold. It felt like they sat in silence for hours, Jacob’s eyes sweeping the forest, every inch of his being on high alert, from the tapered tips of his ears to his muddy boots. She trusted not in him, but in his experience. The Solider was a moniker he’d earned, not one he’d stolen. Even in the Henbane, echoes of ruthless sacrifice and pragmatic strategy were well known to be associated with his name. Jacob was not a man to be trifled with. Time had proven as such, but Eli was no easy prey. It was less of a game of cat and mouse, and rather bear against cougar.

            “Eyes up.” A finger flicked against her chin, and she glared at him, earning a wispy smirk in response, his breath puffing out in clouds between chapped lips. Bone bare, she felt the cold seeping into every joint and every muscle, but she fought back the shivers. Weakness would not be tolerated. “Can’t have you falling asleep yet. You’ve got work to do.”          

            “Why not bring Pratt?” He flinched at the question.

            “Peaches has a different set of skills. He’d be useless here, and I don’t like carrying dead weight. He’s proven to be a liability in combat.”

            “And I’m not?”

            “Not in the slightest.”

            She took that for a compliment, though she wasn’t sure if he’d meant it as such, his back turned to her, head cocked to the side. In the dark, he looked menacing, more so than usual, if that were possible, perched upon the platform’s edge, proudly overseeing his domain.

            A beam of light cut through the haze, pushing Anna into a crouch. She gave him space, rocked up onto the balls of her feet, squinting through the darkness toward the source of the light, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, hushed mutters rattling through the trees. She imagined Jacob barely saw her through the fog of concentration, his mouth pulled tight, eyebrows narrowed, shoulders hunched as he glared down his scope, attempting, in her mind, to strike the fear of God into the unlucky mice that had wandered into their trap.

            “Something isn’t right.” Jacob muttered, his breath shallow, every muscle in his body clenched still. “Eli ain’t there.” 

            “Is he supposed to be?” She whispered in response but received no answer.

            _Gunshots_ rang out through the woods, scattering a gaggle of vultures that had been slumbering in the bushes to their right, and Jacob rose in wordless wrath, expression hard and unreadable, but she got the gist of his body language, or pretended she did when he began to descend; it was time to go. Anna followed in his wake like a shadow, meeting his steps to the best of her ability. It hurt her hips to walk so fast, so low to the ground, the subtle grind of bone upon bone growing more apparent and painful with every passing minute, but he _would_ leave her behind in a part of the world she did not know, and then what would she do.

            Water rushed between the trees somewhere to the right of her, covering their steps so that they were deft and quiet, even in freshly fallen snow. She wondered if he could feel her anxiety, if he could _hear_ the terrified laps her heart was making in her chest.

            Whitehorse would have scolded her for her shitty excuse of a poker face. She'd never been much good at keeping her feelings from blooming into the open. He'd argue that it was his favorite quality in her, the fact that she was so easily readable, but in the same sentence he'd advise her against such a terrible weakness.

            " _Stop_." She nearly crashed into him when Jacob raised a hand, stock still in the shadow of a rustling evergreen. Anna opened her mouth to argue with him, to suggest they keep moving, but the crackle of voices _frighteningly_ nearby, forced her mouth shut. He didn’t motion for her silence, but his body language prayed for it. In all their previous encounters he’d worn a passive confidence on his shoulders, but it was peeling away now, revealing tense uncertainty beneath.

            She hid a nervous warble with a sniffle, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.

            Jacob paid it no mind.

            Anna covered his back as they moved down a slope, thankful for the darkness and every shade for keeping her torn expression hidden. It was not that she _feared_ the Whitetail’s, but rather their reaction to her presence among Jacob’s ranks. She’d met Eli once, in passing, a brief sort of comradery that had lived and died in the heat of battle, but they _knew_ her, they _must_. Whitehorse was not one for silence, and neither was Dutch. If they hadn’t come for her yet, then maybe they feared the worst, or perhaps they had anticipated her _weakness_.

            “Radio.” Jacob gestured with the barrel of his gun to a black box on the ground, sitting on a thatch of grass beside the river. It rattled with meaningless chatter, coordinates to locations nowhere near Hope County. “Might be one of ours. Pick it up.”

            “I don’t think—”

            “ _Do it_.” It was a stupid idea, no two ways about it, but she wasn’t in a position to argue with him. If Jacob was going to get them killed, the cause would be hubris. Eli was his white rabbit, and she feared the eldest Seed would stop at nothing to get his hands on him.

            Anna shouldered her rifle and closed the distance with haste. Moving slowly was an easy way to get shot, but if she ran, she was a harder target. “It’s just nonsense.” She rolled the radio between her hands, intending to shut it off, but when she turned her head to look back at him, her eye caught on something _shiny_. A gleam, muted and soft between the bushes, blacker than the night, caught in a beam of moonlight that crept through the clouds.

            Her eyebrows peaked at first, confusion twisting her lips, a mild sort of humor in the sight of it. She felt like Bugs Bunny, staring down the barrel of a rifle, but it wasn’t Elmer Fudd that sat on the other end. They were faceless, _masked_ , a finger to their lips, pleading for her silence. For a heartbeat, she was content to sit aside, to roll onto her hip and let them take the shot, but then—it was in her heart, that terrible ache, the whisper of words against the curve of her brain. _Only you_.’

            Like a woman possessed, she pushed off the balls of her toes, the urge to surge toward him overwhelming all sense of rational self or though, and her feet carried her forward without the consent of her brain. Unlike every other time she’d relinquished control to his word, however, she remained conscious. No blackness took her, no red invaded her sight beyond the pull of rage that crept up her throat.

            “Move!” She howled as she dropped her shoulder and knocked him backwards, onto his ass, a bullet zipping by her cheek, catching the flesh and dragging it backwards, ripping her open, but she bore the pain, ducking down, but not before a second tore through her, shattering through her collarbone with an audible _snap_. Anna recoiled on instinct, but blindly shot into the darkness, retaliating out of anger, rather than fear, but Jacob tore her away from the spot, his hand in her collar, dragging her along.

            The shadows worked against them. Former allies now dragging at their heels, but Jacob guided her with painful swiftness, his hand upon her bloody wrist, squeezing tightly as they wove between trees. She was dead weight, why he insisted upon dragging her along, she did not know nor care to understand. If he were clever, Jacob would leave her, abandon her upon the shoreline and escape into the wilds, but his mind worked in ways she could not unravel.

            “Duck.” He instructed, and she obeyed, accepting his hand, his guidance, his _path_. She only hesitated when he told her to “leap”, the gaping maw of the forest beneath them, a churning pit of water, fed by the rush of a mighty waterfall.

            Thick beams of light cut through the trees, the hum and rumble of trucks as they crashed through pine, snapping saplings beneath their tires.

            “Go,” she offered, “I’ll keep them off your back.”

            “Jump.”

            “Jacob—”

            “ _Go_.” And the fucker _pushed_ her. Anna would have screamed if there’d been enough time in freefall for her mouth to catch up with her brain, instead she tumbled in stubborn silence, squawking only when her back hit the water. The void swallowed her up in cold shock, and her vision fluttered, splotches of darkness blotting out her sight. _Honeysuckles, the weight of a hand on her thigh, bitter breath on her cheek, the burn of scotch in her nose._ Consciousness left her just long enough for direction to become meaningless, the weight on her lungs increasingly apparent, but there was no body drifting along beside her.

            She tried to listen for gunshots over the sound of rushing water, but she was moving too quickly, slipping over jagged rocks. Scrambling for grip, she snagged a mossy hold, nails digging for stability, snapping back with the effort, flooding the river with her blood, and she surfaced with a gagging gasp, cheeks stinging in the frigid air. Anna emerged from the water weaponless and sopping wet, dashing from the shore for cover in the nearby tree line, her steps shambling with the touch of a limp. The cliff had vanished, but lights still danced through the night air, yet they were far away, burning through the air in search of _them_.

            He’d gotten away then, a thought that brought her strange comfort as she pawed at knobby bark to keep her balance.

            Hazy spots danced at the edges of her vision, like a television without signal, that salt and pepper channel with a hum that itched her brain. _Blood loss_ , she imagined, even in the cold, even in the dampness of her clothes, she could feel the presence of blood, hot and sticky against her skin, but the pain seemed to take a backseat to the panic. At least, for the moment.

            It seemed like she walked for hours, or maybe it was just minutes, abandoning the river and moving southward, heading for the densest parts of the forest. They’d be looking for them in the water, searching the ripples for any signs of life, so it stood to reason that the more distance she put between herself and the river, the better.

            Moonlight guided her shambling steps, the clouds parting to show her the way, the _path_. It didn’t seem like providence, but it led her in the right direction, as eventually a cabin crested the horizon, peering out from between the trees, cold as stone, riddled with bullet holes.

            No fire burned within, and no noise trickled out through it’s wounds, but she pressed her ear to the door regardless, listening for _anything_ , the tiniest smidge of sound, but nothing came, and so she entered through a shattered window, pleased as peaches to find the cabin _empty_ , even if did smell like hide and piss. Every part of her wanted to lie down and die, to be swallowed up by the darkness, but what good would that do? Life was not through with her yet. She would not die cowering the corner of a hunting cabin.

            No part of her pack remained dry, not even the flares had been spared the wrath of the river, but the lighter…it was sopping wet, dripping into her palm, but it was her best shot. Something in her recalled Whitehorse’s crash course in survival skills, who knew they’d ever come in use, especially beneath these circumstances, and she turned the lighter upside down, pushing the wheel against the dry floor, rolling it roughly for a moment or two.

            Only when the flint begin to grind, did she pull it away, trembling hands struggling to make it strike. The first few times it refused, but with a bit more _convincing_ it took, and a tiny flame erupted before her eyes. Never before had she been so thankful for light. Still clutching the lighter with hopeless abandon, she studied the rest of the space. It was dirty, dusty as sin, but not unusable, only abandoned, likely forgotten, just like so many hideaways in the Whitetails. A small fireplace stood against the wall, enough wood beside it to burn for a night or two, and she fixed up a tiny fire, but the moment she began to thaw, pain began to bloom in her body. It radiated between her bones, every joint sour with her for overexerting herself, but the worst was her shoulder, it _bellowed_ in agony, demanding her attention, yet denying any relief.

            Certain she was alone, Anna stripped from her wet clothes, leaving them to dry beside the fireplace, and assessed her shoulder the best she could without use of a mirror. The bullet had passed through her, a blessing for which she was thankful, but before she could begin searching for patch-up materials, a low scuffing beyond the wall forced her to the ground. Flat on her belly, damp hair flicked over her eyes, she searched frantically for a weapon. Anything would do, a stick, a shovel, a _pipe_ , but she found herself in luck with the glimmering glint of a pistol wedged between the cot in the corner and the floor. A ghost, she scuttled over the ground, reaching for the gun as the doorknob twisted, wriggled, and then— _bang!_

            The doorframe shuddered, dust drifting down from the ceiling, covering her from head to toe. She didn’t want to die, not in her underwear, but at least it was practical. A sports bra would raise no questions in a casket, if she was allotted one, that was. Up to her arm in the chasm that held the gun, the door shook again, and then _again_ , the banging becoming more insistent, and when her hand wrapped around the barrel, it flopped aside, groaning away from the lock in a lonely sort of defeat. Anna raised the pistol, prepared to shoot, hands shaking so badly she could barely keep a hold on it, let alone point it straight, the strain in her shoulder almost too much to bear, but then _Jacob_ stepped through, rifle pointed at _her_ , and she nearly keened in joy.     

            “Jesus Christ,”

            “Not even close.” He bit back, hand outstretched. “Give me the gun, _pup_.” She hesitated then, fingers gripping a little tighter, the sudden, _fleeting_ thought of escape tearing through her, but her resilience forced his hand, and he crossed the room in a huff, snatching the gun from her with ease. She gave little fight, her arm relenting the moment he applied any real pressure.

            Dark patches of blood shone upon his chest, soaking through his t-shirt, but if they were a reflection of pain, he did not show it as he crouched beside her, studying her shoulder with benign interest.

            “Clean shot.” He remarked, pressing around the entry wound with stiff fingers, testing her resilience, searching for her threshold. Calloused and rough, they passed over her cheek, finding hold on her chin, pinching it between his forefinger and thumb. “That’ll scar.” He nodded toward her cheek. “I’ll find something to patch it up. You—” he paused, “stay where you are. Watch the door.”

            “Weak.” She muttered, slouching down beside the fire, studying the bare beds of her nails for a moment. Only two remained on her left hand. “You should have left me.” Her attention turned to the door, trained on the sloping wood. The patterns were shifting, knots curling. It would be so easy just to lay down and—

            “It wouldn’t have been prudent. They wouldn’t’ve killed you. You’re still worth somethin’ to them.” He grunted, toppling bins and canisters, emptying them out and tossing them to the side. “Joseph intends me to keep you, so I’ll keep you.”

            “How kind.”

            “Sit up straight.” His tone remained commanding, but when he knelt beside her, there was softness in his breath, a tenderness to him, if only in the way he touched her, grip lighter than she had anticipated. So much in Jacob exuded pain, but now he seemed content to relent, if only for a moment. “You served your purpose tonight.” He paused, clearing out the wound with blunt fingers and alcohol, and she swallowed down a howl, but she could not fight the tears. 

            “It was necessary.”

            “Sacrifice is worthless. You’re no good to me if you’re dead.” He spoke darkly, bandaging her shoulder, lifting her arm to his liking. “But I won’t punish you for what you did.”

            “You owe me, now.” She teased, and his lip curled. It wasn't a smile, more like a sneer, but it was the closest she felt she’d ever get. “A life debt.”

            “I’ll blame that on the blood loss.” He knotted the bandages tightly, enough to inflict pain and she hissed, his lips drawing close to her ear. “Don’ push your luck, _pup_.”

            Jacob rose to his feet, peeling wet clothes from his back, glinting scars, some old and some fresh, shining in the firelight. A few gashes marred his chest, weeping blood through fine red hair, and she tried not to stare, but there was something odd about seeing him so _exposed_. It seemed intimate, vulnerable, a position she’d been in plenty of times before, but never _him_. Strength, the practical sort, was apparent in his build, lean and muscular, not slender like Joseph, but _powerful_. His was the body of a warrior, riddled with burn marks and scars.

            A blanket hit her in the face, a puff of dust and smoke, and Anna broke the surface of her reverie, meeting his gaze with glassy eyes. “Lie down. Rest, if you can. We leave at dawn.”

            She knew better than to argue with him, and it wasn't as though her body would allow it. The floor was a more than suitable bed compared to the confines of the cage, and she faced the fire on her side, injured shoulder pointed up, her back to him as he tended his own wounds. The steadiness of his breath set her mind at ease, mingling with the snapping of wood and rustling of trees beyond the window. He must've imagined her to be asleep, but her head only swam, her body adrift, and in the haze she heard him hum, hallowed words drifting thickly from his tongue, dry and raspy, but warm all the same; “ _only you_ ”.

            She stirred only once in the night when the howling of the wind reached a peak and the fire burned low, mostly embers in the pit. A heavy weight rested upon her back between her shoulders, pressing firmly. _Fingers_ , thick and calloused rested against bare skin, the blanket inched aside. They did not move, nor did they circle, they only paused against her flesh, hot and heavy. Jacob’s arm rested against her, lying flat against her spine, keeping her pinned, but in a way, she found it comforting, _accepting_ , and she arched against him, eliciting the faintest of hums from behind her.

            “Anna?” Her name sounded like tar on his tongue, thick and heavy, unnatural in ways that made her gut _writhe_. When she did not respond, she felt him move closer, the heat of his breath on the back of her neck, his knee taking hold in the shadow of her thighs, and she allowed him that moment, reveled in it, even, for it brought her peace beyond measure.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a bit, I wrote the end of this chapter a couple of times, but this is the one I felt made the most canon sense. 
> 
> Much of this chapter was written to Danger Zone, so that might explain something. Jacob acquires a second feeling, Anna gets claustrophobic, and there's so much passive aggression on both sides that you could cut it like butter...tasty, tasty butter. 
> 
> Come back next time for a chapter I've drafted as "oh no John, honey, what is you doin'?", and a continued lack of sin, unless you count overly detailed hand touching and the invasion of personal space as smut because Joseph's about to make a return.

            “Up.”

            _Pain_ , every bone in her body _ached_ , every minute spent searching for consciousness rent her incapable of coherent thought. In the bleariness of dawn, the floor was much less comforting than it had been the night before, and her body showed the signs of wear, fresh bruises upon her cheeks, a beautiful greenish-yellow that sprawled over her throat.

            He did not need to read her mind to see her discomfort, she was very aware of her contorted expression, eyebrows pushed so closely together they bled into one. “Endure it. You’ll be home soon.”

            “Home.” She echoed thoughtfully, and Jacob nodded, offering her his arm, and she took it gratefully, digging into the weathered, scarred skin as he pulled her up.

            Hope County shone with frost and dew when they emerged from the cabin, a cascade of gleaming rainbows that wriggled beneath their feet, positively _overjoyed_ to be caught in the glance of the rising sun. The temperature must’ve dropped even further overnight, and Anna was thankful for her dry clothes, and their temporary cleanliness. A river, she’d learned, was a decent substitute for a washing machine, though her clothes still stunk, it was to a milder degree.

            “We walk north until we find a road.”

            “Then what?” She asked.

            “More walking.”

            “ _Ah_.”

            Dawn became morning, and morning quickly bled into midday, shadows lengthening, even as gray clouds began to encroach upon the sun. She kept his pace with a considerable amount of effort, but kept her complaints beneath her breath, squidging them out only when the crunch of snow was loud enough to cover them. Whitetail patrols went to and fro, glazing over them like birds of prey, and she took a sharp sense of pride in recognizing the sound of a helicopter before he did, but that pleasure was redacted when he crooked her into cover, stuffing her away beneath barren bushes.

            She did not mind the closeness, only the feel of his eyes upon her face, searching her expression for _something_ , but the questions he seemed to want to ask never came, and instead they waited it out in terrible silence, his favorite symphony.      

            Worry struck her hardest when the land began to incline and sank her heart when a stiff cliff face rose above them. There were easy footholds plainly visible, but she was not certain she could reach them, let alone pull herself over them. She stared up for a moment, surveying the wall, and then checking the sides, attempting to see how long it went on for, and if it were possible for her to shimmy on her hands and knees up a less _steep_ incline.

            “It’ll be easier for me to lift you.” Jacob said pointedly, but she shook her head.

            “I don’t think I’m tall enough to reach the first ledge, even on your shoulders.”

            “You don’t trust me?”

            “Would you?”

            At first, she thought he was going to scold her, to reprimand her for such insolence, but he merely stared at her, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips, then he held out his hands, beckoning to her. Jacob crouched to her level, fingers threaded together to make a basket, yet she remained hesitant, despite her raised foot.

            “C’mon, pup. Have a little faith.”

  
            “Easier said than done.”

            Putting her weight on her uninjured arm, she clutched at his shoulder, and stepped into his palms. Jacob did not lift her with ease, there was some struggle on his part that passed through grit teeth in shallow curses, but he guided her feet until they were on his shoulders and pushed her up toward the ledge. Jagged rock hit just beneath her bust line, cutting in against her lungs, and she used her good hand to pull her forward, leaving weight off of her shoulder entirely as she wriggled onto her belly, his hands at her calves, keeping her steady.

            It wasn’t a slow process, but she couldn’t help but feel foolish in his grasp, writhing on her stomach like a fish inches just inches away from water. Anna rolled onto her back for a moment, breathing heavily in an attempt to recapture some of the air that had been squeezed out of her lungs, before she flopped back over and stuck her hand over the ledge. Jacob didn’t need it, she was certain he didn’t, but he took her by the elbow, and yanked himself upwards, his other hand dug into stone as he lifted. She almost slid over but found a comfortable hook in the rocks for her boots, bearing his weight for all she could stand.

            They repeated the process until they’d made it to the top of the outcrop, breathless and red faced, Anna’s lungs burned as she breathed, the cool air now biting rather than refreshing. Even Jacob seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath, his hands on his knees, back flat, elbows bent. On a positive note, they’d found the road, but the downside to that was that it was empty. No abandoned car awaited them, a ramshackle chariot to carry them home.

            “You’re a lot heavier than you look.” He panted at her, a slick sheen of sweat cresting his brow.

            “So are you.”

            “No.” He grit, slumping back onto his ass, breathing loudly, vaporous clouds surrounding his head as he spoke. “I’m about as heavy as I fuckin’ look, but _you_ , you’re deceptive.”

            “You’ve sure got a way with words.”

            Speaking with him so _candidly_ felt odd, with every word, she feared his retaliation, but he seemed much less malicious in the daylight, and so her tongue grew looser.

            “There’s a reason Joseph doesn’t let me do the sermons.”

            “Would you want to?” She asked, thick eyebrows raised into her hairline, threatening to disappear into the frizzy mop atop her head. She desperately wanted to pull it away from her face, to tie it back, or braid it down, but hair ties weren’t easy to come by, and she wasn’t yet at the point of ruining her shirt to fasten a tie. Hope County wasn’t exactly well stocked in hair products, and she’d fallen into a routine of soap and the occasional hotel sized conditioner to get by, but that was before—

            “No.” He shook his head, eyes upon her as she picked at a fresh cut on her palm. She must’ve cut it on the rocks as they’d ascended, a thin trickle of blood carving through a brand-new layer of dirt upon her skin. Deep, but not wide, enough to cause some pain, but not incapacitate her. “Hurt yourself?”

            “A cut. Nothing more.” _Weak_.

            “Let me see.”

            “It’s fine.”

            “Show it to me.” He snapped, and she crossed the space to him, crouching down as thick fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her closed fist into his lap and wrenching her fingers back, uncurling them with force. Jacob only ever asked _once_. More than that was unnecessary. Permission was expected, never given. A grumbled curse slid through his teeth, and he circled the wound once with his index finger before dropping her hand onto the crux of his knee, tearing at his shirt for a binding.

            It wasn’t clean, but it would keep the rest of the world out and keep her from leaving a trail.

            Jacob was nothing but efficient, knotting up her palm with practiced ease, but he held her in place for a moment longer than a breath, staring at her fingers, and for a second her mind wandered, silently wondering what it would feel like to run them along his lips, what his scars would feel like beneath the calloused tips. _Magnificent_ , she imagined.

            “It’s unkind to stare.”

            “Blood loss.” She shot back.

            “ _Sure_.” His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing else on the matter, choosing instead to rise, knees popping, bones grating audibly. If it hurt, his expression didn’t show it, but she took Jacob to be more of the silent suffering sort. He wasn’t like John, the pain didn’t rouse anything in him, but he didn’t seem bothered by it other. Rather indifferent, actually. “Best keep movin’, pup. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover if we’re gonna make it home before sunset.”

            “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

            _It didn’t_.

            “Keep an eye out for bears.” The lower the sun sank, the sourer Jacob became, not to say he’d ever been in a good mood to begin with, but there were…indications, slight shifts in the cadence of his voice, the way he ground out ‘pup’ between his teeth, the fierceness with which he regarded her. It wasn’t difficult to see that he was tiring, as frustrated and bored of walking and hiding and skulking along the road as she was. It seemed that with every mile they covered, the harder it became to avoid Resistance patrols. She’d thought about running, about shrieking for help, but that voice fell second chair to the stronger one within her heart. She needed to protect him, keep him safe, get him _home_. It was her _purpose_. Her _mission_.

            “I’d like to see you fight one.”

            “Tongue in check, pup.”

            “Why do you call me that?”

            “Keeps you in place.”

            “Why not Anna?”

            “Tools don’t have names.” He scolded. “Now _shut it_ , I need to focus.”

            He was crouched in the dirt beside the road, pouring over a crumpled map, jaw set, lips a thin line as he ground his teeth, the sound audible in early evening. Long lines of sun peered through the barren trees and pines, stroking softly the decay of winter as the sun martyred itself upon the Whitetails, bleeding out slowly through rivers and valleys. Anna walked ahead of him a few minutes, just far enough for his red hair to seem a bit blurry against the encroaching darkness, a sunspot in gathering shadows.

            Fat tire lines burned over the pavement, weaving between the yellow and white, the scent of gas pungent in the air, and Anna followed quietly, eyes tracing the lines with eager intrigue, twisting into the trees where the lines lifted, giving way to a sort of carnage she hadn’t expected. They’d made it quite some distance before whatever, or rather _whoever_ , that had been chasing them caught up to them.

            The car itself was unsalvageable, a beat-up truck wrought in the position of a pretzel against the base of an oak tree, it’s driver sprawled out upon the hood, and a passenger cast into the dirt at its side. She couldn’t tell if it was the crash that had killed them, or the onslaught of bullets they had seemingly endured, their bodies riddled with ruby kisses.

            Heavy boots crunching through fallen leaves and fresh rot, Anna passed around the scene, studying it with vacant apathy. Similar sights riddled the roads of Hope County from the Henbane all the way to Holland Valley. There was no mercy to be found for those that tried to escape, but even less so for those that chose to stay. Run and flee, or hunker down and endure, there were few good options left to those who remained.

            “What’re you doing?”

            Jacob’s timing was _impeccable_ , and she grit back a _squawk_ of shock, nails in her palms, spine slinking out of her shell. No apology came from him, she hadn’t expected it, but he stared at her in silence, a quiet expectation in his gaze.

            “Investigating.”

            “What?”

            “I thought I saw something interesting.” She gestured to the car. “Figured it was worth checking out. Don’t imagine it’ll run, though.”

            “What made you think that?” _Rhetorical_. “It’s a good find.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Not the car,” he gestured behind her, pointing into the darkness with his rifle, and she felt her cheeks grow red. She’d been so focused on the car hadn’t even seen the shack, it’s ghostly visage wedged between the trees.

            “Of— _course_.”

            “Head up and clear it out.”

            “You’ll follow?” She cocked an eyebrow, but he turned his back to her, shouldering his rifle as he made his way to the wrecked car.

            Anna left him to his devices, trudging up the small slope to the shack. It was the size of two outhouses stacked against each other, and the smell wasn’t much better. The door hung upon on one hinge, the others snapped off, a mess of blood, and other foulness smeared against the walls. There were no beds, no cots, not even a sleeping bag, but large shelves, stocked with preserves, ammo, dried food, and— _oh_.

            Her heel clicked against metal, the smooth chuff of it against her boot. A bunker door, sealed tight, and Anna knelt, wrapping a hand around the latch, giving it a heavy tug, and it popped open with tiny _hiss_. She dangled her head inside, searching the darkness for oddities, her ears open to the echoing hum of it’s insides, but it seemed empty.

            “ _Jacob_ ,” she hissed down the hill, but he seemed preoccupied with something else, a radio to his lips, hands working furiously at the knobs. Reaching a leg inside, she touched her foot to the ladder, but for the life of her could not stand to press down further than that. The _darkness_ did not frighten her, only the closeness of it, the hollow vacancy of the certain void. She’d seen the bunkers before, though she’d never been in one, but she knew them to be _tight_ , their corridors narrow as pinholes. The thought of it made her blood run cold, bright pin pricks running up and down her thighs, the rattling of breath in her lungs so suddenly very pronounced.

            The crunch of a twig drew her eye as Jacob rounded the corner, a somewhat tilted grimace on his lips. “Lucky.” He grunted, peering into the void over her shoulder.

            “Saw you on the radio,” she commented, “manage to reach anyone?”

            “Chopper’ll be out to get us in the morning.”

            “ _Oh_.”

            “Don’t sound so disappointed, pup.”     

            “Why not send a pickup for us _now?_ ”

            “There’s a helluva storm movin’ in from the west, it’ll keep us pinned down for the night.” He gestured into the dark but knew fully well she could not see the building mass beyond the peaks. “Is it empty?” His finger turned to the hole her leg still hung within.

            “I think so.”

            “ _Think?_ ”

            “Can’t see in the dark.” She shrugged, his gaze somewhat incredulous as he gaped at her, as though offended that she had not descended into pitch blackness before him.

            “Get inside.”

            “I’d rather stay up top.”

            “ _No_.”

            And that was it, end of discussion, but she felt compelled to push against him, to wriggle only slightly on the edge of his nerves.

            “I don’ like small spaces.”

            “And I don’t like you.” He chewed at her, arms folded, position unwavering, even beneath the ferocity of her gaze. Any lesser person would have folded to it, _Pratt_ had plenty of times before, but he refused her. “Easy way or the hard way, pup, your choice.”

            Anna descended with all the grace and calm of a mountain goat learning how to scale Everest, her hands chalk white on the rungs, teeth grit so hard she could hear them crackle in her teeth, squirming against her gums. A tight knot sat in her chest, beneath her lungs, but above her intestines, weighing tiredly against her stomach, pressing with familiar unease. It wasn’t the first time she’d been shoved away.

            Lights hummed to life, crackling and spitting as nervous breakers struggled to carry a charge, but it was enough to see, but perhaps that was worse. It was no larger than a storage container, the sort seen in dockyards, the ceiling so close to her head she could nearly touch it on her toes, the walls so narrow Jacob’s wingspan would likely consume it.

            “Tight.” He commented, pushing past her to scope out the rest of the space, a distance he covered in just a few long steps, a dangerous sort of glee dancing in his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be happy about this?” It felt like a tease, but his flat expression made her wary. “At least you won’t have to sleep on the floor.” He poked a thumb at the twin beds, so close together they were almost a queen, separated by the space of her hips, and though they were _wide—_ childbearing, as her grandmother would say—it was barely enough to fit his knees.

            “Oh _goody_.”

            Tight spaces only made him seem more threatening, his every move close and calculated, as though he were preparing to jump her just as likely as he was trying to move her out of his way. She resolved to stay out of his path as he went back and forth between the edges of the bunker, cleaning his gun, scrounging up food, bitching about the lack of proper bathroom facilities, and then resolving to head out to heed the call of nature.

            Alone, she slumped onto the bed, the mattress whining beneath her, bed frame squeaking, the hiss of tears burning in her throat. Like everything else in Hope County, the beds were falling apart. Old, probably inherited or built decades ago, yet they still served a purpose. Anna undid her boots with careful ease, slinking out of dirty socks and flopping onto her back, staring up at the corrugated ceiling until it resembled the sky she desperately wanted it to be.

            By the time he returned, she’d turned herself into the blanket, a veritable burrito of discomfort, wrapped in a barebones quilt, avoiding the sheets for fear of the unknown, and he followed her lead. If her bed had quaked at her weight, his positively shrieked, but he settled down into the silence, punctured only by the hesitancy of her breath, the clattering of her teeth as they clacked together.

            She didn’t need to wonder if he could hear her, when he said: “it was hard enough to sleep through your _snoring_ last night, don’t tell me you’re going to keep this up.”

            “I _don’t_ snore.” Anna hissed, cheeks burning scarlet, and she was thankful he could not see her face, though she imagined his expression pleased by the small huff of laughter he puffed out. “And I can’t help it. It’s _freezing_ in here.”

            “Doesn’t bother me much.”

            “Good for you.”

            “ _Snippy_.”

            There was a rustling of fabric, she imagined he’d turned his back to her, but a silent pressure on her arm made her bones turn molten. _Jacob_ was not a toucher, and when he did, or when he _had_ , that touch had been succinct. He had never placed his hands upon her without purpose, but this seemed lingering, _gentle_ even, careful of the soreness in her shoulder, the dull throbbing ache that sank into her neck. She was thankful he could not see the swelling, but she could _feel_ it in her bones.

            He did not pause to swaddle her as he draped his jacket over her, bloodstained camo and tattered edges in rigid conflict with the itchy quilt. Jacob said nothing as he did it, but his fingers sought a hold in her, squeezing as though to convey comfort, and though it was _too_ tight, painful almost, she said nothing. Anna only glanced up at him when he moved away, a flat sort of grimace upon his lips.

            “I don’ need it.” He assured in her silence. “You do. Besides, Joseph would have questions if I allowed you to freeze to death on my mission.”

            “He’d call it destiny.” That almost earned her a laugh, the edges of it tittered on his teeth.

            “Get to sleep.” He chided.

            His body heat still lingered in the tattered fabric, the scent of smoke and _ruin_ woven into the thread. It smelled like him, musk and sweat, fresh earth, _gunpowder_ , some parts were sewn together in messy, lopsided stitches. She wondered if he’d done it himself, but she couldn’t imagine his fingers pinching a needle. Fingers curled into the collar, she curled herself into it, and listened for the hitch of his breath, slowing to a sigh as he slipped into sleep.

            She turned to him, buried up to her chin in folds of fabric, and watched the steady rise and fall of his stomach, his hands inching up and down as breath passed through his nose. He slept on his back, hands folded, chin pressed up. Ever the soldier, ever ready to leap into action. Eventually, he began to snore, the git, but the _sound_ , the absolute peace of it, set her to ease, her own breathing mellowing out, slowing to a crawl, before she too sank into a voidful rest.

            No nightmares awaited her, no ruin, nor damnation. Perhaps she was too tired to dream of apocalypse, or anything at all, for that matter. But then…then she heard _him_ , dark murmurs grating against her brain, sinking into her subconscious. “Wait,” he hissed, seething against her ears, biting into her heart, “ _wait_ , it isn’t—” and then a groan, something twisted, painful, _gut wrenching_.

            Anna’s eyes flickered open, groggy and unclear, but sure enough to see that he had twisted in the sheets. A hand was on his face, covering his eyes, and sweat glinted on his chest, his t-shirt slowly soaking through. He was panting, muttering dark words beneath his breath, curses that squeaked out between his teeth. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she reached out to him, shuffling to her feet to stand over him.

            “Jacob,” she tapped his shoulder, lightly at first, but the grunting persisted, escalating with gusto, “ _Jacob_.” The _noise_ he made was nothing short of a snarl, bolting upright, pupils blown wide, teeth gnashing, blunt nails digging into her arm, and she shrieked at his pull, her shoulder dropping as she fell to her knees, the wrenching pain in her arm so _intense_ she swore he had torn her open. “Stop _!_ ”

            She tried to pull back, to tear herself from him, but his grip was like _iron_ on her arm, pushing straight through to the bone in a desperate search for marrow. Ragged breath echoed along the walls, damp puffs against her palm as he clung to her, face hidden behind shaking shoulders, the curve of his spine painfully apparent through the pull of his shirt.

            “What did you hear?” He growled, low and dark.

            “Nothing at all.” She stammered, attempting to stand, but his grip refused to loosen.

            “ _What did you hear_?”

            “ _Nothing_.”

            When he looked down at her, she expected to see _hatred_ , wrath, the very heart of the earth itself reaching up to burn her up from the inside out, but she had not anticipated such pain, the raw unwinding of his soul. The wall had fallen, bowed down for just a moment, and within him she saw nothing but sadness. Then his hand fell, and he pushed away from her, stomping his way to the ladder and exiting with expeditious haste.

            _Part_ of her, admittedly a very large part, wanted to go after him, but she didn’t like to think about what he’d do to her if she were to bear witness to his weakness. In her, it was palpable, something he could scrub out with enough elbow grease, but in himself...she did not like to imagine the darkness there. There was enough of it to deal with in herself.

            It took no small amount of effort for Anna to pull herself from the floor, her damaged arm dangling at her side. For a moment she inspected it in the only way she knew how, beneath dim, flickering lights, but only found it bruised. In a way she was thankful, but she knew it still needed attention. Jacob’s hack job had been enough for the moment, but not forever. At the rate they were going, an infection was almost a guarantee.

            A half hour passed before she snuck back into bed, burying herself within his jacket, the headiness of his warmth gone, but the touch of smoke remained, the subtle softness of Bliss beneath. She knew that sweetness well, and in the back of her throat it burned, made her want to sing again. _Drugs_ were one thing, but the Bliss was another entirely. It didn’t _addict_ , it controlled, but for the Seed’s, she figured that was the intention.

            When he returned, the cold came with him, but she pretended not to see him, eyes cast low, staring at her bundled feet in the sallow darkness. The lights went off, save for a single panel, and she heard him collapse, a puff of winter air raising the baby hairs on the back of her neck, and she listened for him, the subtle pattern of his breath, the eventual slow she knew was coming, but it never did. He lie awake with her in the darkness, alert and aware, turned onto his side when she finally gathered the courage to look at him.

            Anna lifted a hand toward him, squeaking forward toward the edge of the bed, fingers stretched across the pit. Suddenly, the world did not seem small enough for them. It was not _closeness_ she wanted to impart, however, but comfort. Solidarity, she supposed. She did not know what demons haunted Jacob’s steps, though she could imagine the shades they undertook; war _, weakness_ , pride.

            Against his back, her hand felt very small, pressed up against a sheet of marble thicker than all the Whitetails combined. He tensed beneath her, very aware of his touch, but said nothing as her middle finger aligned with his spine, pressing firmly against the center of him. It was all the touch she felt he could bare, and she held it until his body went slack, and the softness of peace wrapped him away in the darkness.

            Anna did not sleep that night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll, I just wanted to say thank you so much for your sweet comments and all of your love. I really appreciate it, and it makes me happy as pie to know you enjoy my writing! It's my joy to create, and an extra special cherry on top to know that you like it!
> 
> There's some sin in this chapter, but only one person gets naked. This is also a longer-ish chapter, but I didn't feel like there was any natural place to cut it, so I just called it when I ran out of brain power.
> 
> Next chapter gets heavy, so buckle up kiddos, we're on a one way train to confession town. I'll post warnings if necessary, but it's a vastly unwritten chapter, so I'm going in pretty blind.

            If she said she was happy to be back at St. Francis’ that would be an even bolder lie than the ones she told herself to keep from running _every_ time the possibility of escape reared its ugly head at her. Jacob said little to her beyond “go”, and “get help”, before he left her to her own devices. Evidently her time in the cage had come to an end, but she wondered how long that would last. He did not seem the type to let her go freely with ease. If he’d put her to a test by taking her into the woods, perhaps this was his way of rewarding her for mindless dedication.

            She took up what work she could around the compound, finding a place to sleep—at Pratt’s behest—in one of St. Francis’ innumerable rooms. He rarely saw her, so tightly wound around Jacob’s finger that the strain was visible in swell of his throat. He talked to her little but spent his time in her presence wondering of his own strength. He seemed to think himself weak, but there was nothing that could be said to bolster his conviction. Anna felt that what had been done to her was nowhere _near_ what had been done to Pratt, though Jacob still had time to prove her wrong, and that was what kept her on edge. It was better to be near him than to be beyond him, and his distance made her nervous beyond all measure.

It felt to her that he was _planning_ something, plotting against her, but where Jacob was conniving he was also direct. By all means, she would not be surprised if he told her he was going to slit her throat before he did it, not to savor her reaction as he bled her dry, but because it was a courtesy.

            A month passed, whittling days worn down by grey clouds and ceaseless screams. They didn’t bother her much anymore, and observation she did not mind until she became aware of it. She tended to the cages, avoiding the faces she knew, searing them from her mind. It did not do her well to dwell on them, remnants of a past that was no longer her own. For all he was, Jacob had made her strong, broken her down to build her back up. She was no warrior, not like _him_ , but she was _better_ for it.

            Whitehorse had never come for her. That was enough to settle her mind, and the work she did with Jacob was _purposeful_ , perhaps not good by the textbook definition, but it had a reason. She did not run to and fro at the beck and call of strangers, but rather took orders and executed with precision in a place she felt her own. It was…comforting.

            The time before had never been like that. Even before she’d been the Rookie, consistency had been difficult to come by, halfway homes and broken alleyways. In the darkest hours of the morning, she wondered what her _parents_ would think, how her family would react. Time had made them distant, even before she’d moved to Montana, but she’d write to them around the holidays, keep them posted of her life whenever she felt she could endure the cost of their time. Anna didn’t know if they got her letters. Maybe they burned them upon reception. She wouldn’t blame them, but it hurt more to cut them from her heart then it did to leave them there

            They were still her blood, after all. She felt them in her skin and bones, saw them in the green of her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones. Her mother had left her freckled and wise beyond her youth, and her father—she supposed she’d gotten his nose, flat and sharp, all narrow edges and pointy bits.

            When he called for her again, she was not anticipating it, but welcomed his summons all the same. The room she’d commandeered was not hidden, though she often shared it with someone else, yet on her bedside table—a mottled amalgamation of crates she’d stolen from around the compound— _someone_ had left her a gift, or she imagined it to be as such. It had been such a tiny thing she’d barely seen it when she’d risen, a faint carving of a wolf, stricken into dark wood, knotted around a thin piece of leather cord. She wrapped it around her neck, and tucked it beneath her flannel shirt, keeping it hidden against her chest.

            “Anna,” Pratt called to her from the door, gesturing quietly, that same silent worry etched into his face, “ _come on_ , he’s waiting for you.”

            They left together in silence, and she walked beside him in quiet comfort, but Pratt seemed on edge, his hands shaking, fingers picking and pulling at one another.

            “Somethings wrong.” She’d meant it as a question, but her directness made it seem a statement.

            He said nothing at first, but then: “you’re so comfortable here.”

            “It works.”

            “It shouldn’t.” He hissed. “Don’t you _want_ to get out?”

            “I don’t know.” The part of her that _did_ grew smaller every day, loosing miles to the growing dissonance within her. “I thought I did at first, but—maybe this is where we _belong_.”

            “Don’t say that.”

            “We have purpose here, Staci.” She argued. “Think about the world beyond this, all that suffering, all that hatred. Eden’s Gate isn’t perfect, but at least they’re _trying_.”

            “ _Stop_.” He gripped her forearm tightly, wriggling fingers making a dash for her palm as they paused before a door. “Whatever he’s put in your head, there’s gotta be a way to undo it, right? There’s gotta be something, we can’t be stuck like this.”

            She opened her mouth to respond but could find nothing in her throat to give him. Pratt was no sinner, but there was little she could do to change his mind. A flicker in her eye thought to tell Jacob, but even she was not so cruel. He would find his place in time, or so she told herself as he released her hand, turning to open the door.  
            “Took long enough.”

            “Sorry,”

            “My fault.” Anna interjected. “I was—preoccupied.”

            “ _I see_.” The narrowness of his eyes indicated his disbelief, but it wasn’t severe enough for Jacob to act upon, not yet, but, in her excuse, it had not been a brazen lie, and it wasn’t exactly untrue either. She had caused their lateness. “Leave us, Peaches.”

            Pratt slunk away through the door, and Anna nearly heard him _shudder_ in relief when it closed.

            “You’ve been quiet.” He remarked, hip propped against a table, arms crossed over his chest. The scars on his forearms seemed worse than she remembered.

            “I’ve had a lot to keep me busy,” she offered, studying the room with mild interest, it’s walls covered in sloping lines, red threads between tattered pictures, black circles and violent x’s dashed here and there. It was his war room, desks crammed together to fit a map, ammunition stocked in the corners, a cot tucked away into a tiny nook beside the window. “Seems like there’s always somethin’ to do.”

            “You’ve done well.”

            She couldn’t help her smile, nor the warmness in her cheeks, but if he expected thanks, he did not ask for it. “I don’t suspect you called me here just to compliment my work ethic.”

            “Perceptive as always, pup.” A furrow dug in upon his brow, thick lines, _worry_ lines. “Joseph will come for you in the morning.”

            “Why?”

            “Something _holy_ , I assume.”

            “He didn’t tell you?”

            He offered her a look that said as much as his raised shoulders did: “I don’t pretend to understand how his mind works. He said he wants to see you.”

            “And?”

            “He’s bringing John with him.” At that she tensed, the vein in her temple somewhat strained at the thought. She didn’t hold _much_ ill will toward John, but there was something to be said for the youngest Seed’s violent tendencies. If she’d been the butcher, then he was the slaughterer. “I don’t know what he wants with you, but, knowing John, it can’t be anything good.”

            _Comforting_. Oftentimes she appreciated how matter-of-fact Jacob could be, but now she wished he would lie, that he would display some _mercy_ to her crumbling sense of being. She did not feel as though she belonged entirely, but she thought that she had discovered a purpose, if only temporary, and Joseph—he would take that away from her?

            “Has—” she hesitated to ask anything, to press him for information. She believed him when he said he did not know, Jacob rarely had reason to lie. “Is my work unsatisfactory?”

            “Quite the opposite.”

            “Then why?”

            “Believe me, pup, I didn’t have a thing to do with it.” He sighed. “He said it was a vision, fate, something _cryptic._ You’ll get used to that.”

            “I don’t think I will.”

            “I kept the message if you’re interested.” He growled over her, jerking his thumb to a dusty old landline settled in the corner of the room. “Won’t explain anything, but if you have doubts—”

            “I’d like to hear it.”

            The look on his face told her he’d expected her to decline, to take his word at face value, but it wasn’t a distrust of him that drove her desire, but rather her curiosity. She wanted to know, wanted to see if there was some unheard message that Jacob had missed in his brothers words. Joseph had been _kind_ to her, in a way, not necessarily cruel, but she figured _that_ was his cruelty. Kindness was his weapon, one he hid exceptionally well.

            A crackle preceded his voice, soft, wandering tones that echoed off the peeling walls. It was hushed and hallowed, a confession before God, and Jacob watched her intently as she listened, her eyes fixed on the machine as though she were staring at Joseph himself.

            “I’ve had another dream, brother, the very _same_ that preceded _her_ , but instead of ashes, she arose from water. Beauty, _baptism_ , and on her skin—” he paused, a weighty silence, she could nearly hear him swallowing, the cadence of his words now horribly slow, “words, but I could not read them. Atonements, repentance, a horror I could not see. You’ve done well by her, brought out all the good God sees in her, but the lamb carries so much _pain_. You see it, don’t you? In her eyes.” Another pause, this time shorter. “You’ve told me of her dreams, what she whispers in her sleep—”

            She shot Jacob a look, dark as sin, but his glare won out. He would not have offered if he did not mind her hearing it, but the thought still troubled her. What had she said?

            “ _Anna_ is not unlike any other member of our flock. She has impressed you, I hear it in your voice, but you were not meant to keep her. Her place is not with you.” _Hurt_ crossed Jacob’s eyes, barely a glimmer, a shock of gold against icy blue, but she _saw_ it. “John and I will come to collect her at dawn. Be sure that she is ready.”

            And the receiver clicked.

            For a moment she did nothing, simply nodding her head as she processed, arms folded tightly, lips pursed into a thin, flat line. Part of her lingered on the fact that he had called her _lamb,_ and another struggled with the concept of leaving St. Francis’, but somewhere in her heart she felt a painful sort of weakness, a tug that plunged through her belly.

            Jacob did not want her to leave.

            “You’ve watched me sleep?”

            “You’re very loud, sometimes.” He shrugged, as though the idea was all very nonchalant. “It worries your neighbors.”

            “What do I say?”

            “Nothin’ I feel comfortable repeating.” He said. “Though, we did have a very pleasant conversation about cheese last weekend.”

            She laughed at that, strained, but gentle, and he smiled into her mirth, the tenseness in his shoulders abating for a split second before it returned in full force, bolstered by the seriousness of her gaze.

            “I don’t want him to take me.”

            “It’s not a choice.” Jacob took an uneasy step toward her, hand itching upwards, fingers outstretched, meeting her forearm gently before moving upwards, passing over her elbow, ruffling her sleeve on the way to her shoulder. “Don’t let him fool you. Joseph isn’t easy to negotiate with.”

            “I wasn’t thinking of negotiating.”

            “You want my advice?” He asked but did not wait for an answer. “Go with him. _Let_ him take you, and you’ll return to me in time. I’ll call you home if I need you.”

            “And if I need you?”

            “I suppose I’ll have to make good on that life debt, then.” It was a tease, lilting and calm, but his hand had reached her neck, long fingers toying with the narrow cord that dipped beneath her shirt, and he slipped a digit beneath it, pulling it out for his inspection, the wolf dangling innocently in midair. “I didn’t think you’d take to wearin’ it, but I guess you _are_ the sentimental type.”

            He was redirecting, steering the conversation in a direction he liked, and she was more than keen to play his game. It did her no good to dwell on what John wanted, and no amount of pushing or bending would get Jacob to turn on his brothers. She was not worth his mutiny, and she had already come so far. What could he do to her that Jacob had not? And how could she promise herself that she would still hate him once it was all over? 

            “I didn’t know you could carve so well.”

            “Keeps my hands busy.” He grimaced, so close now she could feel his breath on her collarbone, the painful heat that radiated off his skin. “Helps me think.”

            Painfully hesitant, she touched him in turn, placing her hands on his shoulders, fingers curled into that tattered old jacket, and while he did _tense_ for a moment, he relented when she knocked her head against hers, a display of affection often shared between the brothers, but never with her. His hand left her to rest upon her forearm, pulling gently, as though to dissuade, but when she made to move, to break contact, he hummed against her, nose crossed with hers. She could feel the puff of his breath on her lips, the weight of his skull against her own.

            “This is dangerous.” He growled, the scruff of his beard tickling her chin, and she stifled a smile in his cheek, burying a _kiss_ there that closed the last few inches of painful distance between them. Any outsider might’ve thought them to be dancing, knees interlocked, heads bowed as though in rapture, but the way his hands gripped her, the desperation that drove his fingers into her _spine_ spoke to a different sort of dance, the sway of power between them maddeningly slow.

            Never had Jacob seemed so hesitant, but she imagined him to be running scenarios in his head, calculating the merits of _taking_ her, or perhaps the consequences of it. She did not mind it, the silence, the weight of him against her chest, the feel of his hands on the small of her back, fingers soothing in tiny motions until they forgot to move.

             He turned his head in toward her, scruff against her cheek, scraping roughly, and she opened her mouth to speak, to _caution_ him, but he was upon her before the words left her, dry lips quiet against her own, firm at first, softening only when she moved against him. Anna struggled to open to him, but he did not press. Jacob did not know _gentleness_ , but he was patient, and he seemed to show _some_ restraint in kissing her, every motion paced and controlled. It was as though he did not know _how_ to touch her, if his grip was too stiff or too light.

            When he pulled away, it was not completely, his cheek pressed to hers, but their bodies remained distant, miles apart. He stank of the woods, of fresh air and grass, muddy riversides and rattling pine. “I have not forgotten the feel of your hand on my spine, the stench of you in my clothes,” he trailed off dryly, swallowing hard, the sound audible in the silence of the night.

            She reached up to touch him blindly, fingers light against his cheek at first, moving over scarred flesh with curious abandon, before she pressed her palm to him, inviting him to lean into her, to _open_.

            Jacob was not loving, not in the visible way. In the shadow of his brothers, Jacob seemed a tyrant, and in many ways, he _was_. The blood would never be gone from his hands, and her fear of him still thrived, but recollection made the darkness rosy. He’d brought her comfort before, cradled her wounds, eased her pain. Through him she had become strong, bowed in some ways, but _better_. He’d brought her salvation, redemption, set her on the path to atonement after all she had done. What had he been but a savior? The ruination necessary to set her straight?

            “I can’t stop him.” He muttered into her ear, breath hot against her, hands hovering over her skin, afraid to land, cautious to touch, but she now openly cradled his head in her hands, fingers working through his hair in tired strokes. “He will take you from me, he’ll call it _providence_ , and maybe it is, but I will come for you. All you have to do is ask.”

            She nodded her head against his, turning quietly, lips against his cheek, soothing ruined scars. His breath was labored now, constricted, puffing against her chin, his hands in her hair, knotting the chestnut strands in his fists. Her hair had grown darker in the winter, her skin paler. His grip forced her to turn her head, but she denied his control, ignoring his parted lips, scorching his chin, cheeks and nose with kisses.

            “Anna,” he breathed, but the sound of her name felt thick and odd on his tongue. The way he said it, so heavily, so darkly, soaked in his want and his need, made her knees strangely weak, and she allowed him to capture her, his teeth against her lips, his kisses hungry and haphazard.

            His affection was sloppy, unpracticed and untamed, but his grip was like steel, curving her toward him. He sought to control the altercation, to steer them in his direction, and she allowed him as much power as she felt she could take, his arms around her waist, pulling her toward him.

            When they broke it was only for air, gasping in reverence of one another until her hand slipped beneath the hem of his bloody shirt, pulling him in and stripping him down. She’d never seen him bare beyond brief moments, and never in revelry, yet he seemed keen to deny her the sight, drawing her attention away from his flesh when his tongue intruded upon her mouth. Scars moved like constellations beneath her fingers, and he shuddered at her touch, wordlessly discouraging it, nipping at her lip.

            “I want to see you.” She protested weakly, drawing away from him, choking on fresh air. The taste of him was on her tongue, smoke and wilderness, mountains between her teeth, the copper tang of blood, sweeter than air.

            “I ain’t much to look at.” He dove in again, seeking her throat, but she caught his head in her hands, fingers trailing over his chest, over wispy hair and hardened muscle. _Warrior_ , there was no vanity in his physique, only practical strength, purposeful definition, and she drank in the sight of him in hurried brevity. Strength beyond all compare. Calloused hands moved over her stomach, drawing over scars and scabs, relieving her of her top, tearing through buttons with ease, but he seemed more enraptured by her lips than he did the sight of her.

            Teeth grazed her throat, his tongue upon her pulse, a distraction from the hand that worked at her bra, and she clung to him, nails in his shoulders, a shaking mess, the apex of her thighs burning with need. She nearly whimpered when his knee slid between her legs. He sought to steady himself, even as she leaned against the ramshackle desks, but the pressure, the firm press of his thigh against her forced the rock of her hips, the anxious writhing in her gut bringing feathery moans to her lips.

            Possession he took to easily, tearing her bra from her as though it were no stronger than paper, loosing her belt and shrugging her out of her pants. What part of her did his hands not touch? Where they went his lips followed, a scorching trail with which he mapped her skin, biting and nipping where he saw fit, marking her to his pleasure, eliciting sharp sighs and panicked moans from her bruising lips. She could do little but paw at him, digging in her fingers wherever they would hold, and he kissed at her shoulder, a sunburst of a scar spread out against fair skin.

            He would not allow her touch, keenly keeping her hands at bay whenever they strayed beneath his belt, though she felt him when he pressed against her, the rigid thickness of his length against the core of her belly. 

            And then—and _then_ the doorframe shuddered with the pounding of fists.

            At first, the sound didn’t seem to bother him, and Jacob continued his ministrations with an elevated intensity, but the _noise_ distracted her, the desperation of it. If they were under attack, the entire compound would’ve lit up, so this was _private_ , isolated. The troops didn’t need to be called into order, only Jacob, but that made it _urgent_.

            “ _Jacob_.” The voice was one she did not know, and Jacob hissed his exhalation, palms flat against the table, shoulders hunched, the leer in his eye so _dark_ it drove away the shadows.

            “ _What_?” It was less of a shout, and more of a bark, yet the raised pitch of his tone did not make her cower, if anything it made her bolder, a hand on his stomach, inching lower.

            “It’s Elk Jaw, sir, they’ve—” a hushed silence, tense and raw, and Jacob pressed her hand away, his interest piqued, though his gaze remained murderous, the tightness of his lips a product of blind wrath. “The Whitetail’s have taken it, and it’s comin’ through the radio that…that Eli _might_ be there.”

            “You could send the Chosen,” she suggested in a quiet voice, seeking his affection in the only way she knew how, her lips on his chin, hands on his cheeks.

            “If it’s Eli—”

            “You don’t have to go.” But she _knew_ he did.

            Jacob withdrew enough for her to have to search for her balance on the edge of the desk, fingers splayed wide as she watched him hunt for his shirt upon the ground. “You can stay here if you want,” he offered, picking up her jeans and tossing them to her. She wriggled them on, not nearly as content with the idea of being found near nude in Jacob’s war room as she had been just a few minutes ago.

            “What if I don’t want to stay?” She asked, eyeing the tiny cot in the corner of the room as he slipped his jacket over her shoulders, zipping it up without asking. Her flannel was ruined, a tattered heap in his hands. Evidently, he’d ripped more than _just_ the buttons in his efforts to relieve her of it.

            “Then I’ll come find you,” he said it plainly, as though it were the obvious answer, but he leaned toward her on the next word, tone low as sin, thicker than honey, “I enjoy a good hunt.”

            “I’ll be sure to make it a challenge for you.”

            “You can try.”

            He left her in silence, a final kiss wetting her lips before he turned on her, exiting in what she considered a gracious sort of huff. Hours passed, the war room filled and emptied, occupied by members of Jacob’s army of all ranks. Some Chosen, some initiates, she knew them by their smell, the emptiness in their eyes, that beaten sort of resignation. Not long ago that’d been her, but she imagined it still was. The only difference now was that she had access to the showers.

            Jacob did not return until the sky was streaked red in morning glory, pale fingers of orange and yellow peeling back the somber veil of night, replacing that horrid vacancy with brilliant color, but she found little beauty in it. They’d wasted their time, and Joseph was coming for her. She didn’t _fear_ them; only what John would do to her. She’d pissed in his cornflakes, so to speak, and she knew his wrath was no trite threat.

            She’d thought about leaving, about digging in at a corner of St. Francis’ that Jacob had never seen, though that itself was pure speculation, yet as the evening had moved on, she’d figured he’d appreciate her games less and less. For all his talk of the hunt, his professions that it excited him, he returned to her tired, bloody, and reeking of smoke.

            “What happened?” She asked, but Jacob did not speak, choosing instead to pass by her, headed for his cot, discarding weapons and ruby soaked clothes as he went. That itself was enough of an answer.

            He flopped down on his back, arm open to her, as though in asking, and she joined him without question, the fit so tight that her ass most certainly hung over the edge, and he turned to accommodate her, leaving her to stare at the back of his head. His presence was enough, his comfort enough, the steady rise and fall of his stomach beneath her hand when she curled into his back, her forehead on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his middle.

            He was _enough_ , but she feared he did not know.

            Time did not slow when they were together, if anything it accelerated, and the crest of the sun soon became unbearable. He stirred beneath her hands once or twice, soothed back into slumber at her insistence, but the glint of gold beyond the window grew to flame, and no amount of soothing on her part would keep him from pushing her away. It was best _not_ to fight, but she had an inclining such a dogma would fail against Joseph and John. Jacob had tamed her, but they were still outliers, and they _threatened_ her with absolution.

            Anna wanted to speak to him, to ask for his reassurance, lord knew she _craved_ it, but the silence seemed better. He took to it easier, so she didn’t push him, and instead _allowed_ him to guide her from the war room, through the halls, down the stairs, and into the open air. Thick blankets of snow mounded around them, plush and fluffy, tinged red at the edges where St. Francis had dug in hold. There was no inch of it that did not stink of copper.

            She tried to swallow back surprise, to seem unperturbed at the realization Joseph and John had been waiting for her. Joseph didn’t seem bothered, his features placid, relaxed even in the midst of terror. Winter had not brought a stop to the screaming, if anything, the cages were alive with it, more so than they’d ever been, but John’s features spoke to an arrogant disgust, he hid it well, but she saw it in his eyes when they bore back at her, lips curled into a grin.

            “We heard about Elk Jaw,” Joseph spoke first, fingers steepled, a plain sort of grimace on his lips. “It’s a shame it couldn’t be saved, but do be more careful, brother. The lodge can be rebuilt—”

            “It was necessary.” Jacob grunted, earning an uneasy smile from Joseph. Placidity aside, even he seemed on edge, not necessarily rattled, but disturbed by _something_.

            “Anna is aware?” Her name sounded hollow on Joseph’s lips, no longer reverential, but painful.

            “Unfortunately.” Jacob seethed in response, and Joseph turned to her, his hand outstretched, but she hesitated in taking it, turning her eyes, instead, to Jacob, who stared at her with unholy weight. He did not want her to go.

            “Then are you prepared, child?” Joseph’s fingers curled inward, beckoning her forward, and she bit her tongue, half-expecting Jacob to say something, but no word left him, no hiss nor plea, he only stared, fingers itching into fists at his sides. Joseph’s word was law after all.

            “Unfortunately.” She echoed, accepting Joseph’s touch, but they never connected, he only hovered above her, fingers twitching, but refusing to land. He swept her forward, and she relented to his guidance, but fell still as stone when he turned her toward John.

            “Go to him.” Joseph urged, his tone quiet, but words thick, hands now firm upon her shoulders, his weight upon her, but she turned her gaze to him, concern and confusion blooming onto her cheeks. “Jacob has stripped you of your misgivings, the false idols and wicked gods that brought you to us in sin, but the time has come for you to be reborn.”

            “No.” Anna’s heels dug into the mud, but Joseph was stronger than he looked, his hands locked around her arms, dragging her forward.

            “John _will_ guide you on the path to atonement, he shall set you free, but you _must_ go to him.”

            “ _No_.” It wasn’t a scream, but it came close to a _yelp_ , strangled and raw, and she kicked for the sake of kicking, throwing out a leg to stop their progression, throwing her back into Joseph’s chest, but John was coming to meet them, grim glee in his eyes. Anna tore her arms out of Joseph’s grip, tossing out a hand to keep John at bay, but there was no threat in her, she neither looked it nor felt it.  

“Call your _pup_ to heel, Jacob, she’s going to embarrass herself.” John taunted, and Anna fixed him with rage, Joseph’s hands struggling to regain his hold on her, but she brushed him away, all elbows and nails, wriggling her way out of his grip. She expected the chime, those somber notes, those _words_ , but they never came. Jacob hadn’t moved, his gaze fixed on her, but it was neither pleading nor demeaning, he simply watched, studying her quietly.  

            In a moment of distraction, John reached for her, but she snatched herself away from prying hands, striking outwards, and with a sloppy _crunch_ her elbow kissed John’s nose, sending him into a stumbling crouch, a hand slapping flat over his face, spouting curses into the dawn.

            “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” He bellowed, thin threads of red seeping through his loose fingers, dripping into the muddled snow.

            “Don’t you _dare_ touch me.” She snarled, consciously stepping away when he lifted his head, blood streaming down his face, mingling with his beard, flooding his mouth with red, staining his teeth when he grinned at her, toothy and wide.

            “Oh, girl, if you're this riled up at the thought of my touch, I can't wait to see what fun we can get into when we're alone. Whatever it is he’s made you believe _pain_ is, I shall—”

            “ _John_.” It came as a boom, the thundercrack of Joseph’s voice, and even Anna had to admit that all the little hairs on the back of her neck had gone on end, her spine rippling with electricity. “She is already fearful of you, why else do you think she refuses your help? Do not allow it to encourage your sins, you must _love_ her, and, in turn, she will learn to _trust_ you.”       

            “ _Fear—_ ” she managed to scoff, but Joseph glared her into silence, gesturing to Jacob with an open hand, but he didn’t come. The mood between them had changed, and tension twanged like an out of tune note, grinding against her ears.

            “Guide her Jacob.”

            She let him take her, though Jacob seemed as hesitant as she was, his hand soft against the middle of her back, and she relented to his touch. Anna recognized John’s truck, not from the look, but from how clean it was on the inside. He had a tick, that much was certain, yet Jacob seemed loathe to let her go, fingers curled into her borrowed jacket, his lips at her ear.

            “I will come for you. Just _ask_.”

            “I know.”

            A kiss to her hair, passed off as the turn of his head, his hand on her arm, squeezing her tight, and then relaxing, sweeping away, leaving her in the space of John, who seemed much too eager to invade her bubble, the flicker in his eye calculated and patient. He’d wiped most of the blood away, but it lived now in the cracks of his lips. Every muscle in her body tensed when he touched her, just a finger or two to her shoulder, his grin turning toward Jacob instead, who now stood beside Joseph, arms folded, gaze thickly shadowed. “Worry not, brother. I’ll return her to you in one piece,”

            “I’ll hold you to it.”

            “So long as she confesses, of course. I can’t promise that there won’t be any _damage_. Cleansing the soul, is, after all, the most strenuous task one can undertake.”

            Even in distance, she could see the set line of Jacob’s jaw, the tenseness of it in the dawn, the shaking of his arms as he clenched tighter. John knew how to press, he _knew_ how to dig, even Jacob was not immune to his taunting. He pulled the passenger door open, and Anna entered, using his shoulder as a grip, a luxury he was _too_ pleased to provide, his eyes ever watchful, and beneath the Father’s gaze they departed together, and so awfully alone.

            At least this time she was allowed to sit in the front.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the wheelie chair, Rook's one true ally. 
> 
> We get a little uncomfortable here. Physical & sexual abuse is discussed, so be wary of that. John is torturous, but such is John. I avoid anything exceptionally graphic, but it can be a bit squidgy at moments. Next chapter will be slightly more domestic, softness returns, and our dirty boi has a chance to shine, but lets be real: he's gonna find a way to fuck it up somehow.

_Damp_. Her nose was flooded with it, wet sickness, that sort of rotting slipperiness between folds of soaked wood. The world was quiet, punctured only by humming, a soft, lilting sound unworthy of the confines she found herself in, the silent bindings that kept her wrists pinned to metal arms. She could feel the weight of them on her skin, the pull of rope against her legs, and they were crossed at the ankles, hooked in an unnatural way.

            _John_. He’d done this to her. Lured her into complacency, hushed her with his own silence, and then— _then_ , the Bliss. She remembered the taste of it well. Sweeter than honey, but darkly bitter. Its poison was in it’s taste, it’s power a tangible thing, thick on her tongue, clinging to the back of her throat. The recollection came upon her in waves. She’d thought he’d shot her at first, and he’d be better for it, she wouldn’t have blamed him, necessarily, but it’d been a Bliss bullet. Anna remembered his strength, the feel of his hands on her back, bending her knees, lifting her with a stumbling sort of struggle, but gathering her together none the less.

She hoped she’d fought him, but she couldn’t imagine her heart’d been in it. The Bliss _did_ things to her, left her mind at the door to her senses, rending her incapable of any real rational thought. Faith would’ve drowned her in it, would’ve left her to burn in that green haze, but perhaps it would’ve suited her. There were aspects to it she liked. The lightness of it, the _softness_ , death in it’s gentlest terms wasn’t what she deserved, but Faith had been prepared to give it to her.

            Knees swam into view first. _Her_ knees, thank God. Part of her half expected to see John bent over her, tattoo gun in hand, but he seemed busy, his back to her, hands occupied with _something_. She took the opportunity to study the room he’d locked her in, though her vision was fuzzy and her own sight unreliable. It looked like a boiler room, copper pipes threaded along the ceiling, iron bars keeping them trapped together, animals in a cage, and a workbench settled into a corner, cocked on it’s side. That’s where John stood, humming to himself, a familiar tune, but the words she did not know.

            “ _Ah_ ,” he crooned, the feel of her gaze and the rattling of the wheelie chair he’d settled her on apparently enough to draw his attention, “I was just about to wake you.”

            “Where am I?”

            “Safe.” A curt reply, but the most she felt she’d get out of him. Besides, the concept of winded speech made her throat ache, her mouth was _dry_ , riddled with that sticky sort of dehydration, the sort that made her throat stick when she swallowed. “Water?” John was well prepared, a plastic bottle in hand, sloshing it in her face, but she wondered how he would use it against her. He didn’t seem beyond depriving her of water to urge a confession out of her. “Don’t look so worried. If I was going to kill you, I certainly wouldn’t poison you.”

            “That’s not what I’m worried about.” She croaked, mouth opening at his insistence, head falling back as he pressed the bottle to her lips, a hand on her face, thumb to her jaw. John, much like Joseph, did not seem to mind invading her personal space. Her mere existence was an invitation to his touch, she could not imagine that the binding of her hands helped, but that was how they _operated._ A touch was forgiveness, a touch was _openness_ , it was how they expressed affection, but also rage.

            “This will be painful,” he said it was though it was fact, but his voice remained smooth, calm as honey as it slipped into the room, “this will _hurt_ , but just how _much_ is up to you.” The bottle moved away from her lips, drained of it’s contents, and she nearly gasped with the rush of air, head swimming for oxygen.

            “I have nothing to confess to.”

            “ _Oh_ , you’re going to be fun, aren’t you?” He grinned up at her, the touch of fire on her shoulders as he slipped away. “I’ll get you started; murder. Indicative of quite the sin, isn’t it? Wrath, perhaps? You’ve always been the chaotic type, death seems to precede you everywhere you go.”

            She didn’t need to ask to know what he was talking about.

            “I didn’t _want_ to kill her.”

            “But you did.”

            “Faith was a—I _tried_ to reason with her.”

            “And then you wrapped your hands around her throat and squeezed until there was nothing left. Or am I mistaking facts, Deputy? You wanted her to choke on it, didn’t you? So, you held her head beneath the water just long enough to make it hard for her to fight back, and then you took the air from her lungs? Is that it?”

            _Silence_.

            “Struck a nerve, did I?”

            “I have nothing to add.”

            He hummed softly, a rich darkness in the depths of his eyes as he stared at her, bottom lip squidged between his teeth. “Such _defiance_. Stubbornness finds a root in _pride_ , you know? But you aren’t guilty of pride, are you? You relinquished that to Jacob when you let him tame you, when you let him… _conquer_ you, for lack of a better word.”

            “ _What_?”

            “How sly do you think you really are?” He teased. “A jacket that’s three times your size, and you aren’t wearing a thing beneath it? And that tender little kiss he left you with.” She forced a null reaction, biting down on her tongue, narrowing her eyes, but that itself was enough to give it away.

            “You—”

            “Don’t worry, I didn’t peek. That much of you is safe from my prying, but I did find something _very_ curious.”

            Her brain scrambled for a second, rifling through all the things it could be, before a vacancy around her neck forced it to dawn upon her. _The wolf_.

            “It was a gift.” She felt the need to explain but had a feeling it would change very little in John’s mind. “What did you do with it?”

            “Jacob isn’t what one would call a giver, at least not to _petulant_ children.” He ignored her question, choosing instead to busy himself at the work bench, nimble fingers dancing over glinting tools of all shapes and sizes.

            “I didn’t ask for it.”

            “I’m not here to _judge_ your sins, Anna, only uncover them, and lust, well, that’s quite the sin.”

            “We never fucked if that’s what you’re getting at.”  


            “Lust isn’t always so carnal.” He teased, a smug grin lifting the corners of his lips. He liked to see her on edge, _liked_ to be in control. “Sometimes just the thought is as sinful as the act.”

            “You never answered my question.” She grunted, a pointed glare fixed right between his eyes, and he raised his eyebrows; “what did you do with it?”

            “It’s been put into safe keeping. The less distracted you are, the easier this will be.”

            “Let’s just get this over with.”

            “Don’t be so eager, my dear. A rushed confession is just as bad as no confession. We’ll take our time getting you where you _need_ to be, so get comfortable. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

            Time with John passed differently than it had in the cages. At least Jacob had offered her a view of _something_ the passing of legs beyond her sight, the changing of the days, the rippling of clouds, sunrise and sunset, _daylight_. John’s work room offered none of those things. When she was alone, she was _alone_ , trapped with nothing but her thoughts to echo off the walls. Sometimes the pipes rattled, the hissing of passing fluid, but little more than that disrupted her bubble.

            And, in time, Anna became acutely aware that she was growing used to John’s presence. He’d show up at odd times, prod her, poke her, wring her brain for information with a list of seemingly harmless questions, and then _leave_ , but when he’d return, she’d nearly smile for it. His voice was better than _no_ voice, even when his hands wrapped around her wrists, even when he dug his nails into her skin, even when he rose his hand against her.

            She hated him for it, of course, but those feelings were muddled by her reliance on him for sanity. Without John, she was alone. The absence of the wolf reminded her of that.

            “Where were you born?”

            “New York.”

            “City girl, a woman after my own heart.”

            “ _Upstate_.”

            “A hick, then.” He grinned, but the next question fell heavily between them, a weight in the pit of her gut that bowed her down to the ground. “Do you believe in God?”

            “I was—” she grimaced, eyes narrowing as she cocked her head like a dog hard of hearing, the pink of her tongue squeezed between her teeth, “my parents raised me to believe.”

            “Were they active members of the church?”

            “Oh yes.” She nodded. “Mr. and Mrs. Proctor never missed a service, but Roman Catholics are certainly cut from a special sort of cloth, aren’t they?”

            “That is a _difficult_ branch to follow, but it doesn’t exactly answer my question.” His hands were over hers, gripping the arm rests tightly, wheeling her forward so that they were nose to nose. He smelled like sweat, like day old cologne and… _whisky_? She couldn’t imagine Joseph allowed him to drink, but perhaps had unresolved sins of his own. “Do you believe in God?”

            She inhaled sharply, mouth opening and then closing, then opening again, a fresh split in her lip rubbing raw against her teeth; “I don’t know.”

            He huffed at that, eyebrows raised as he passed around her, relinquishing the wheelie chair with a sort of tepid disgust, and she wheeled helplessly until she hit the wall. It wasn’t a soft impact, but it didn’t hurt either. He hadn’t flung her, but rather shoved her with mild disinterest. “Joseph told me to look for the good in you, those little moments of ‘grace’, as he likes to call them, but what _good_ can exist in a heathen?”

            “As if you are without flaw.”

            She did not think the Book of Joseph could be used as a weapon, but John seemed keen to prove her wrong in as many ways as he was able. He let her be after that, let her _sleep_ , if only for a time. His soldiers came and went as they pleased, passing through to feed her, to keep her _alive_ in the barest sense of the word. That was where John and Jacob intersected. Both used _deprivation_ to get what they wanted. Jacob, perhaps, in a slightly different sense. She supposed _conditioning_ made it easier, but John went purely on instinct. He would drive her into need before she confessed.

            He came to her again at the cusp of ruin.

            “My parents were the first ones to teach me about the power of yes.” She would have rolled her eyes if the left one hadn’t swollen shut. “One night, they took me into the kitchen, and they threw me on the ground.” _Oh_. “I experienced pain after pain after _pain_ , and when I didn’t think I could take anymore, I did.” He stood over her now, his hands on her cheeks, smearing blood with tears and sweat, but there was no malice to be found in his gaze, only… _wonder_. “Something broke free inside of me. I wasn’t _scared_ , I was clear. I looked up at them, and I started to laugh. All I could say was _yes_.”

            “I’m— _sorry_.” It grit against her teeth, but she felt there was nothing else she could say.

            “Don’t be.” He bit back. “I’ve spent my entire life looking for things to say yes to, but I was so _selfish_ , Anna. All I ever did was take, all I ever did was _receive_ , but Joseph taught me how to give. I don’t _want_ to hurt you, I don’t _want_ to kill you, and I won’t—trust me, dear, I _won’t_ —but if you continue to deny me, I will force upon you the greatest of pains, the most unholy sufferings, because that is my gift to you.” Fingers gripped her chin, keeping her in place, and the full weight of his gaze was upon her again. “Through horror comes clarity. You will emerge from this…perfect, clean, _unburdened_. Doesn’t that sound heavenly?” He exhaled on that final word, smiling at her, and something in her wanted to agree, to scream that three-letter word she was sure he whispered to himself in the wee hours of the night when all doors to God were closed and he was _alone_ in his bitter isolation, but her tongue would not allow that. _No_ , she had something to _prove_ , didn’t she?

            “There is no pain you could inflict upon me that I have not already endured.”

            His upper lip picked up, the whites of his teeth showing for a moment, a snarl at the edges of his tongue. “Oh, I can think of a few.”

            _Perdition_ , the station to which she must’ve always been racing. In a way, Anna liked it, riling him up, _teasing_ him. It wasn’t attractive, the way spittle flew from his teeth, how he gnashed at the bit to get a dig at her, but it was enough to pass the time. He was to easy to prod, but not necessarily easy to manipulate. She’d tried her hand at that once or twice, and nearly lost a fingernail for it. He’d only stopped at the sound of a confession, a meep of something _foolish_ she’d done as a teen. It’d been enough to sate him, an admission of theft, petty thievery from a liquor store, but not enough to let her go. Greed, he’d determined, was not her sin.

            Anna sat in the dark, chin elevated, her head back, the crooked edge of the wheelie chair supporting her neck as she stared at the ceiling, tracing the edges of pipes as they dipped and rose into the darkness. John was with her, propped up against the edge of his workbench, she could hear him breathing. His breath was different from Jacob’s, less calm, more rapid, like he was always _struggling_ to keep it, but perhaps that came from the beatings. If it wore her down, it wore him down, though, admittedly, to a lesser degree. He was waiting for her to recover. Giving her a brief moment of reverie in the silence to build up her strength. No good beating a dead horse, as it were.

            “You know,” she swallowed thickly, mouth dry, but similarly wet all the same, but it was only blood she tasted, the sweetness of herself lost in the ruins of her teeth, “I was a wily little girl.”

            She heard him huff at that, a tiny peep of laughter. “That’s not surprising given how much of a _pain in the ass_ you’ve been.”

            “Not always so colossal.” She admitted, voice dry, devoid of tone. She spoke in a trance, exhaustion catching up to her, mingling with pain, the throbbing of her head, the ringing in her ears. “My mother despised it, she thought my mood detestable, my actions unladylike, so she’d take me to the basement, and put me in a closet, right next to the washing machine. It was cold, smelled like detergent—I remember the cobwebs, and the soap, and the ceiling.” She nodded her head, as though confirming it to herself. “It looked like this.”

            “Perhaps we have more in common than I thought.” It came softly, a touch of sympathy, maybe even empathy, but she shook her head, raising it to look at him, her brain swimming back and forth between her ears, threatening to leak out of her nose.

            “Good lord, I hope not.” She answered quietly, and the silence crept back in, his eyes upon her, the pink of his tongue slipping out between his painfully perfect teeth.

            “ _Confess_.” He breathed, but she only shook her head. No was getting to be just as grating as his insistence for yes. “Why is this so difficult for you? Why can’t you just let me in? All I want is for you to open to me, Anna. All I want is to relieve you of your sin.”

            “Why not pride?” She asked. “That seems fitting.”

            “It doesn’t suit you.” He gripped the edges of the wheelie chair, bowing over her again, eyes glinting in the near darkness. “Why don’t we try something different?”

            “No.”

            “Your _favorite_ word. I’ll sear _mine_ into your throat when we’re finished here so you might carry it as a reminder.” He grimaced darkly, retracting so that he could pace in front of her. One thing John seemed to hate more than silence was stillness. He was always moving, always touching, twitching, rocking, _something_. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

            “I’ve been told I carry good conversations.”

            “Quite so. I’ve found that you’re much more agreeable in sleep.”

            “So, you torture me when I’m unconscious?” She cocked as much of an eyebrow as she could manage, but the swelling made it difficult.

            “How little you must think of me, Anna.” A pause, and then he turned to her, staring at her directly, passing through her, straight to her core. “ _Jonah_. Does it ring a bell?”    

            “No.” She spat, but the action itself gave her away, his grimace blooming into a grin, though her face had filled with horror. Just the name set her on edge, nails grasping at nothing, her leg subconsciously beginning to jump, jiggling in her bonds. Every inch of her wanted to flee, but John would force her to endure.

            “Don’t lie.”

            “It doesn’t matter.”

            He hummed at that, a finger wagging at her, _teasing_ her, and she wished she were free so that she could _bite it off_. “You don’t get to decide that, little lamb. Tell me; who was he? The way you speak of him, such haughty reverence, you must’ve cared a great deal for him.”

            She wanted to _vomit_ , her insides had knotted up into her throat, wriggling about against her lungs, making desperate attempts to squidge themselves out of her body in any way they could, and she gagged in revulsion, clearly sweating now, dripping salt onto her lap.

            “The opposite, then? You hated this man, this _Jonah_ , why?”

            “It doesn’t matter.” She repeated, eyes wild and angry as she stared up at him, but there was fear there, burning through her skull and into the room. The air stank of panic as she struggled harder against her bindings, but he only smiled at her, a knowing grin that said he’d won. “ _Let me go_.”

            “We’re so close, Anna, can’t you feel it? Embrace that fear, _endure_ it, for the moment of atonement grows closer and closer with every passing minute.” His hands were upon her again, squeezing her head, fingers in her hair, palms on her cheeks, so close she could nearly feel his lashes upon her skin as she stared into her, seeking out her thoughts through her eyes, blue on green, winding down an endless tunnel. “I can help you, but you must let me in. Release your sins, be free of them, let them fall from your heart onto this floor and, in turn, you will find yourself free.”           

            “I can’t.” The words were small, weary, but he took to them like gold, eyes wider than saucers.   

            “You can.” A pause, thick and wet, blood on her tongue, the swelling of her skull too much to bear. “Who was he? A friend? A lover, perhaps?”

            She shook her head, desperately aware of his fervor, the frightening severity of it. “Everyone loved him,” whispers against her lips, patient and slow. She’d practiced the words a thousand times, but never spoken them aloud. They’d festered at the pit of her heart, burning a hole into her lungs, and breath came hard for her, raspy and wet.

            “You have to say it, say his _name_.”

            “ _Jonah_.”

            “What did _you_ do to him?”

            “It wasn’t what I did to him.” Her gaze had narrowed, darkened circles beneath her eyes now so pronounced she looked no more lively than a corpse. John chose to avoid the search in her eye, focusing on the pain instead. “I tried to be honest. I did what was right. I—”

            “Those aren’t _answers_ , Anna.” He gripped the chair at the armrests, wheeling her toward him. His expression was one of painful restraint. The youngest of the three, he seemed to struggle to keep his emotions from bleeding through, a fiery sort of softness dancing in his depths, though the blood on his hands begged to suggest otherwise. She had a hard time believing it all belonged to her. “You shirk away from the root of your sin. I can only help you if you speak it aloud.”

            “What he did has nothing to do with sin.”

            “It has everything to do with it.”

            The words _burned_ within her, threatening to suffocate her when she opened her mouth and then closed it again, eyes squeezed shut. Tears came faster than she wanted, but they paid her will no mind as they slipped down her cheeks, making a quick path to her jaw. John pushed her away, wheels clattering over the floor as he paced away, and she peered at him from between her lashes. He shed his vest first, shrugging it over his shoulders and folding it neatly on the end of his workbench, his shirt quickly following suit, and she reveled in the beauty of his spine, the vain perfection of his back. Tattoos continued up his arms, to his shoulders, over his chest, down his stomach, mingling with scars, and—to more _southern_ grounds she could not, and wished not, to see.

            “I have been _exceptionally_ patient with you.” He seethed. “I’ve asked you time and time again to trust me, to allow me to bear the burden of your sin, and yet you deny my grace in favor of your pride.” He weighed a pair of pliers in his hand, seemingly unsure if they were enough to do the job, but when he turned to her, she found fresh panic in her limbs. It wasn’t until his hand was on her brow that she was certain this was _really_ happening, and he wasn’t attempting to pull the rug out from beneath her. She closed her mouth and turned, thrashing out of his grip, attempting to scoot back across the floor, for all the good it would do, but he wedged a knee between her thighs and pinned her back with the weight of his chest. “I’ve promised to return you in one piece, and so I shall, but I find that a very _loose_ definition. Sin is still sin, and yours seems to live between your teeth. Set it _free_ , Anna, or you’ll force me to guide your way, and I’d rather not ruin that pretty smile of yours.”  
           

            She struggled for a minute, whipping her head back and forth until she grew dizzy, bucking her hips against him, attempting with all her might to dislodge his knee, but a finger caught her lips, wedging itself into her mouth, and he pried her open, wriggling the pliers inside, and they found hold on her left incisor, tugging gently. Anna whimpered, eyes squeezed shut, prepared for the pain, but when he began to _pull_ , she begged him to stop.

            “ _Confess_.” He hissed, face so close she could feel the moisture of the word on her lips, and she _broke_ , the words flowing free.

            “I was thirteen.” The first words were hushed, harrowed, but when they finally came, they _flooded_ the air with their stench. “He’d watch me when my parents were out, invite the neighborhood over for cookouts, and we— _I_ trusted him.”

            “ _But._ ” John keenly intruded, his knee moving away from the apex of her thighs, but he remained crouched over her, and she was thankful for the weight of his shadow upon her. The brightness of the world frightened her now, the darkness of his shade a welcome respite.

            “He told me I was a special. An angel sent to Earth _just for him_.” She tried not to cry, but it was no use, and she gagged on the sting of salt. “He’d visit me in my fort, piece of shit really, just a couple of crates and a blanket, but he thought it was amazing. Everything I did was so worthy of his praise, an utter miracle in his eye, but then he—it wasn’t enough. He wanted _more_.”

            “What did he do?”

            “What do you _think_ he did?” If she’d had the strength, she would have shrieked it at him, but it fell flat, slinking out of her mouth as little more than a whimper.

            “Confess, Anna, tell me _everything_ , let me be your shoulder, be rid of the demons that haunt you so that you can be _free_.”

            “He snuck in when my back was turned. Plied me with sweets, and— _whisky,_ told me it was okay, that I was a big girl capable of making good choices, that it was God’s will that I had come to him, and by God’s hand that he would take me.” Rage built in her chest, the rattling edges of her bones coming to the skin of her, pressing against her flesh as she heaved, breath now sharp and _angry_. “But that ruined it. It’d been a mistake. I was ugly, then, unworthy of his presence because I was spoiled, _broken._ I went to my parents, tried to tell the truth, begged my father to do—something, but they didn’t believe me.” She choked on the words now, dragging up dredges of feelings she had not lived in _years_. “I wanted to _kill_ him.”

            “Did you?”

            “No.” She relented, the disappointment thick on her tongue. “I wish I had, but someone else beat me to it. Guess I wasn’t his only angel.”

            “There’s more, you’re still holding back.” He’d dropped the pliers in favor of her shoulder, crouched at eye level, his fingers tight on her flesh, cool as steel. “Your family failed you, but we _won’t_. You need only unload these sins, and we will accept you with open arms. We want to help you.”

            She _believed_ him.

            “I went to the police. That’s what they tell you when you’re a kid, the police can help.”

            “Did they?”

            “They tried, but my _father_ insisted I was disturbed, that I’d mistaken kindness for cruelty, and that was that, but it was never the same. They’d never been _good_ , but—” she seethed in the words, throat struggling to keep them down, tears flowing freely, cutting ruined rivers down her chest. “I became the sin in their life that they had to hide, their _mistake._ Sometimes I’d act up, I was just a kid, you know, and my mother would lock me away, sometimes for _days,_ leave me to rot because it was for my own good. That way they wouldn’t be tempted to hurt me, it was how they _protected_ me from their blame.”

            “And what did they blame you for?” His hand was in her own, clawed fingers wrapped about his sturdy flesh, nails pressed into the back of his hand, but he did not seem to mind the pressure of her grip. If anything, he reveled in it, the pitiful wrath of her undoing.

            “Ruining their reputation. _I_ was the problem, _I_ was why the world turned against us. My family became an eyesore because of me. The community ostracized us, the church abandoned us, because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. How could I have let it happen? How _dare_ I let him—”

            “It wasn’t your fault.” Lies, she’d heard those words before, but John made them feel real, the sincerity in his tone so unlike him, warm and coddling. “You didn’t do anything. _They_ abandoned you.”

            “ _Yes_.” She nearly heard him _shudder_ at the sound, his eyes intent on her, so impossibly wide she had to imagine it hurt, but the weight of his gaze never shifted. He knew there was more, saw it in the nervous flick of her tongue, watched it as she squirmed beneath him, the weight of the world now too heavy, every inch of her flesh dampened by sweat. “I went to see them before I left for Montana.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Maybe I thought they’d be sad to see me go, or at least I _hoped_ it, but they were glad.” She almost laughed, the pitch of her voice high and whining, thick with spite. “They were so happy to see me gone because they didn’t have to pretend that a child hadn’t ruined their life. That their world had never been big enough for me.” 

            “ _Wrath._ ” It was as though it had dawned upon him, the reverence with which he spoke it. “You hold all this _rage_ within you, all this _hatred_. Contempt for this man, for your family, abhorrence against those that betrayed you, but you must relinquish this fury. Let it go, be free of it, or it will swallow you whole.”

            “I can’t.”

            “You will learn to.” He assured her, both hands on her shoulders now, standing above her, eyes cast down as though in prayer. “And I will show you the way. Such is the will of the Father.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, I just fucked up my finger. I cut it pretty badly on the lid of can of beans. Unfortunately, that meant I wasn't able to have beans on my taco. It also bled. A LOT. Anyways, I had to keep it wrapped for a few days because the gash was pretty deep and it went diagonally over the back of my knuckle, so that made it difficult and a little painful to type, especially considering that it was on my dominant hand. I've recently downgraded (upgraded?) to band-aids, so I've got some bending power back, and I'll be back to writing more consistently. 
> 
> Enjoy some fluffy shit. Let's be real, we all want to wear John's clothes. Joseph's also here, and way too touchy. Join us next time for overprotective Jacob, strained family relationships, judgmental horses and the continuation of a segment I liked to call: John, why? 
> 
> ALSO, if ya'll want, I can link you the playlist I've been listening to while writing this. It might be good for background music?

_Silk_ , smooth satin between her legs, plush clouds beneath her head. She felt as though she were floating, suspended in thin air above the floor. It’d been months since she’d slept in a _real_ bed, discounting bunker _cots_ and the occasional sleeping bag, and the feeling was euphoric, but even that seemed too lax a word.

            Stirring lazily, Anna peered out of the window, climbing up through the pillows to watch a guard sweep by beneath the sill. A burning throb in her chest forced her onto her side, pushing away the blankets to stare at the scratches between her shoulder and sternum, written in hasty, eager lettering; _wrath_. There was no blood, only raw redness around lines, and a bit of swelling in odd places. She touched it gently with the tips of her fingers, hissing at the pressure, how eager her skin was to burn beneath her touch. It felt like a sunburn, the worst she’d ever had, her nerves shot beyond all measure, tingling with fresh rawness.

            Much of what occurred after the confession felt weighty in her head, imbued with a thickening fog that grew denser with each moment she spent awake. John had marked her. In the end he’d gotten what he’d wanted, for all his posturing about family and forgiveness, she knew he’d taken some pleasure in breaking her down. But he’d done it kindly, or as gently as she’d imagined he could. She could still feel him, the weight of his hand on her throat, holding her down, keeping her still, his lips on her brow, thanking her for her truth, for _trusting_ in him.

            He’d let her lean upon him as he’d lead her out of the bunker and into bright morning light, wisps of dawn breaking winter’s grasp as they emerged into a new day. He’d said something prophetic and wise, but she could not recall it, only the feel of his hand on her waist, the scent of sweat mingling with his cologne. The sheets smelled like him, _oak_ and cedar, a touch of smoke and tobacco flowers.

            She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she could recall showering. The first _real_ shower in weeks, in an actual tub instead of a stall, a real faucet and all compared to a glorified hose strapped to a wall. How black the suds had been in her hair, how brown the water had been, circling the drain with clumps of dirt and blood. John had given her fresh clothes—twice her size, she imagined them to be his, she knew no one else that wore such _soft_ button downs—and stuffed her into a bed. He hadn’t asked, but she hadn’t had it in her to fight him either.

            “Good morning,” a cheery drawl rolled over her from the doorway. She did not have to turn to know it was John. “Although, good afternoon might be more appropriate. It’s nearly past three.”

            “God _damn_ ,”

            “ _Tongue_ , Anna.” He warned, and the bed dipped low as he sat behind her, a bemused lilt in his tone. “You would not want to disappoint the Father.”

            “Joseph’s here?”

            “He wanted to see you.” His hand ghosted over her back as she craned her neck to him, green eyes gleaming over her shoulder, the shadows of her eyes still vaguely pronounced, the swollen kiss of her eye still puffy. John’s _affection_ was anything but subtle. “He’s witnessed your confession.”

            “How?” She grimaced, rising to a sitting position, her gaze impossibly fixed upon his. In his home, he seemed more at ease, vest discarded, sleeves rolled lightly, his hair less fixed and more…mussed, but that did not disguise the bruises on his knuckles, the flimsy webbing between forefinger and thumb where she’d bit him in panic. “It was just us in there.”         

            “All confessions are recorded.” John said. “Joseph likes to keep an eye on me, to make sure I keep my temper in check, and sometimes it helps to have them on hand, to remind people of the pain they’ve endured to reach Eden.”

            He could have said blackmail, but that would have been too easy. She looked away from him, feigning interest in the closely knitted quilt as he tweezed a bare piece of bedsheet between his fingers, but his gaze was still upon her. She could feel the heat of it burning through her skull.

            “I don’t appreciate your gaze.” She bit, and he laughed his response, a gratingly sweet sound between his tongue and teeth.

            “It’s difficult not to look. You are so much less threatening in _my_ bed.” He teased.

            “And you’re trying to tell _me_ what’s inappropriate to say?”

            “Sinner.” He grinned at her wolfishly, and she rose from the bed, finding her footing with minimal stumbling, though his arms stretched out to catch her. “I only tease, my dear.” He hustled after her, boots clunking against the ground as he walked, dwarfing the _pip-pap_ of her bare feet. Seed Ranch could have been a bed and breakfast in another life, all quaint and cozy, despite the cult paraphernalia, but Anna wasn’t interested in taking in the scenery as she padded down the stairs, John quick on her heels. His hand was on her shoulder, as though to guide her, but his touch was no longer comforting. “Take a left—I said _left,_ into the living room. He’s waiting for you.”

            He hadn’t lied. Sure enough Joseph stood aloof in the midafternoon light. If anything, Seed Ranch was full of aesthetically appeasing windows, but the air around him seemed a bit warmer, brightened by the tanned glow of his skin in the haze of winter. A leather couch, surrounded by arm chairs of varying plushness and colors, sat in a circle around the fireplace. End tables and a coffee table of solid wood rested upon some sort of animal skin rug, and Joseph stood in the center of it all, taking it in.

            “My lamb returns to me.” He lifted his hands to her, but she took them with hesitance, his thumbs gracing the backs of her hands. “A little bruised, but still whole.”

            “She slept through the better part of the day. I only just managed to get her out of bed.” John commented gently, and Joseph fixed him with a passive stare. It was not unkind, nor was it angry, only flat, though still _warm_. Anna feared the day she saw him lose control.

            “You have done well, John. Go in peace.”

            “Yes, Joseph.” He cast Anna another lingering stare, his expression oddly withering, before he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

            “Please, sit.” He spoke it as a choice but gave her few options as he lead her to the couch, taking a seat adjacent to her in an armchair, still connected through their hands. She wondered what he gained from such extensive _touching_. Perhaps he enjoyed the physicality of it, or maybe he sook something else in her palms. Something she could not give. “I witnessed your confession.”

            She nodded her head, muttering a weak: “John mentioned as such.”

            “You two have more in common than you know.” He relinquished her hands with stubborn grace, long fingers stroking the ruined mark, trailing along the tattered ‘a’ with rapturous interest. “At his core, he is _good._ Perhaps you will not believe it, but he was a kind and caring child. Easily corrupted by malicious intent. Our birth parents did not want him, and, in separation, he was given to a family that took advantage of his better qualities.”

            “I misjudged him.” Anna relented, though it was more a question than a statement, a furrow on her brow, attempting to unravel his words as they slipped through his lips.

            “ _No_.” Joseph said coolly. “You judged him well for what you saw, and his treatment of you was _unkind_. It was not fair, but John can be easily tempted into sin.” A nail dug into her sternum as he spoke, she wasn’t sure if it was purposeful or not, but Joseph buttoned the top of her borrowed nightclothes, his eyes fixed upon her face as he did so, a weary sort of smile touching his lips.

            “But he tries.” She supplanted, earning a lilting laugh from his throat.

            “He does.”

            “It must count for something.” 

            “Careful, Anna, that you do not trade your goodness for naivete. John is no saint.” He chastised, a heavier note in his voice. “It is goodness that brought you to me, that caused you to rebel against the Marshal. You did not want to take me. Do you recall what you said before you bound my hands?”

            “It is my duty.”

            “And what is your duty now?”

            “I do not know.”

            “Do you like it here?” It was a pointed question, odd sounding on his lips. Joseph rarely asked questions so _directly_ , he tended to wrap them in sermon, a touch of faith in his every word. “The Ranch is big enough to spare room for you, and John could take to your kindness. You might prove to have a good influence on him.”

            “If he doesn’t kill me first.”

            “You must have thought the same when I sent you to Jacob, and now,” long fingers reached into the breast pocket of his vest, procuring that _damned_ little wolf. Still whole, still…in one piece, though the cord was knotted in two places now instead of one. “He’s so eager to have you back, should you wish to return to him.”

            “How eager?” An eyebrow twitched upwards, not exactly of her own accord, but she couldn’t help her intrigue as she reached for the wolf, but he withheld it, clutching tightly at the cord even when her fingers wrapped around it.

            “He would leave the Whitetails to fetch you himself, should you ask it of him. A mighty kindness considering how— _uncomfortable_ Jacob can sometimes feel among the flock. Long has he felt a tool without purpose, but perhaps you’ve given him the means necessary to question that.”

            “I’m not sure about that,” she began the words stumbling on her tongue, before she asked: “where would you have me go, Joseph?”

            He hummed at the mention of his name, a tiny smile curling his lips, “many paths lie before you, child, many roads to take, all good, but none equal. Do as you choose, and through grace I will guide you.” He pushed the wolf into her palm, his hands wrapping around hers so that her fingers crested his. In silence, he bowed his head, pressing his lips to her knuckles, his eyes squeezed shut.

            “Joseph—” she wanted to move away, to strip her fingers from him, but he turned his head, knuckles pressed into his cheek, the tips of her fingers twitching against his beard.

            Words ghosted against her fingers, the heat of his breath almost unbearable against her flesh, a quiet prayer into her palm that she could never repeat, honeyed words so thick they whittled her down to the bone. He released her hands to touch her face, dry fingers smoothing back her wild hair, leaving her forehead bare, skin to skin, skull to skull, the tip of his nose playing _dangerous_ games with hers. “For all that you have taken, you’ve begun to give. You are becoming our greatest gift, Anna, far more than worth the suffering.”

            “Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to stay, and sat deathly still in his grasp, her hands in her lap, eyes squeezed shut, but he breathed against her, inhaled every inch of her being, and her fingers wriggled, inching forwards with no slim amount of hesitancy.

            “I trust you.” He urged, his words nearly holy against her skin, and she placed her hands on his shoulders, solidifying the connection, making them _whole_. Bravery stole her touch, moving it upwards toward his neck, but he did not seem worried when her thumbs crossed his throat, his breath steady and slow when her fingers hit hair, bracketing around his ears, mirroring his touch.

            For how long they sat interlocked, she did not know. Time was of little consequence, only the touch of his hands and the feel of his breath seemed to matter, the silence of the void they inhabited impenetrable, save for one thing: _John_.

            “How cozy.”

            A huff of laughter brushed her cheeks as Joseph pulled away, hands returning to his lap.

            “Young Anna is learning to trust again. Do not disparage her efforts.”

            “Perhaps she would trust in me.” John raised his eyebrows, yet his hands remained at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in rapid motions.

            “Not yet.” She answered quietly, a response she meant to be tactful, but it came off as rather simpering, as though she were a petulant child, but neither Seed chastised her, Joseph’s hand a heavy comfort on her knee.

            “ _Ah_ , still a bit sore, are we?” John teased, earning a stern glare.

            “Kindness, John. There is much you could learn from her, and much she will learn from you. Whatever your _permanent_ choice, Anna, I would ask a favor of you; stay here for a time. A week at the least. Learn the root of the project, work among the flock, gain their trust, and trust in return.”

            “I will if I can.”

            “That is all I can ask of you.” He rose with her, hands on her elbows, lifting her up. “Though, I would caution you to speak to Jacob soon. Your absence has left him restless, or so it seems _._ ”

            “If I could borrow a radio,” she trailed off, eyebrows raised as she looked to John who muttered something so low she could not hear it, but the quirk in his tone made her well enough aware that he was _disgusted_ at the suggestion.

            “See to it, John.” Joseph was insistent, and for a moment the brothers stared at each other, neither relenting, but one very obviously in a position of power over the other. Anna wondered where the ripple between them lie, that tiny crack in the foundation of their brotherhood that made Joseph’s words sound more like commandments than suggestions. She thought for a moment that it might be age. While she wasn’t certain of the distance between them, she knew John to be the youngest, and by quite a stretch, but a hunch told her that wasn’t the root of the issue.

            “Of course.” John nodded his head, and Anna released a breath she did not know she had been holding. Joseph sent her away with all the tenderness he had arrived with, and soon she was alone with John. He lead her through the Ranch in silence, a thing she feared more than his endless speeches, his lip trapped between his teeth, face set in hard concentration.

            “Thank you,” she offered, speaking to his back as he walked, and he turned on her with such speed he nearly bowled her over. Fear struck her, the shadow of his hand rising, but he did not touch her, he only gripped the wall, fingers spread like spider legs, all joints and wretched ruin.

            “And what exactly have I done to earn your thanks? I recall very _different_ words coming from that tongue no less than a day ago. What was it you called me? Oh yes, a black-hearted, fear-mongering, slimy son of a—”

            “I have a hard time believing you’d say anything nicer if I’d taken a poker to _your_ knee.”

            Perhaps it was _true_ she had called him some _unfavorable_ names in the bunker, but, in her defense, he’d taken a _toll_ on her. Her waking mind would not dare to sling insults at John, but in that moment, she’d lost grip of her sensibilities. It wasn’t that they were wasted on him, some were quite effective, but they only served to feed his complex, something Anna was keen to avoid.

            “Of course, dearest, but that doesn’t exactly take away the sting, does it?”

            “And I suppose permanently scarring me wasn’t enough to make up for it, either?”

            He opened his mouth to bite something back, to hiss at her with all the cleverness she knew lived behind his tongue, but he paused to place a hand over her chest, right above her breasts, along the sloping path of her sternum, fingers curled over the burning scar and she winced in pain, attempting to pull back, but he held her in place, all hint of a grin vanished from his lips.

            Long fingers trailed inwards, walking over sharp bone to nestle on the button of her borrowed shirt, and he popped it open with trained ease. It was his, after all, yet she couldn’t help but find it ironic that he would undo what Joseph had set to prevent. 

            “You need to let it breathe.” He said quietly, eyes cast down to where his fingers lingered. “We wouldn’t want it getting infected, would we? I’d have to cut it out and start all over again.”

            John released her gently. He did not have to be forceful to make his point, and instead walked her to a room with a radio and a view of the hangar and the landing strip beyond. Snow clung to Holland Valley in thick, fluffy clouds, burying trees and toppling fences, yet the world seemed much clearer than it had before, that same golden tint hanging in the air in the hazy glow of the low sun. It wouldn’t last. If Anna knew winter in Montana well enough, then the gray skies would be back by the end of the day, but she couldn’t help but revel in the softness of midday, and John allowed it, if only for a moment.

            “Keep it quick.” He held out the radio to her, and she took it without hesitance, but found herself struggling to speak, even when she opened the channel and pressed down. There were too _many_ things wanted to say, yet she feared Jacob would only find it a bother, a thought that brought her more pause than she’d like to admit.

            “St. Francis, this is Anna,” it came as a garbled mess, too quick and sloppy, her tongue thick and useless as she turned from John, keen to block him out, but his eyes never left her, the feel of his gaze heavy as ever. “Anna _Proctor_ , I—need to speak with Jacob.”

            _Silence_ , then a rustling sound, like papers being moved, a kick of feedback, and finally: “Rook?”

            “Staci!” She nearly shrieked with joy, her hand flying over her mouth to conceal her excitement, but John had noticed, his eyebrows raised in silence, but she pretended not to see, turning even further into herself in an effort to conceal her privacy. It was good to hear a friendly voice, a _familiar_ voice.

            “Anna? You—it’s you? It's really you?”  

            “Yes, _yes,_ of course it’s me. Are you—how are you holding up?”

            “I thought you were dead.” If there were tears, she could not hear them, but the hushed plunge of his voice made her heart tighten. “Not everyone makes it out of John’s bunker alive, Anna. We—everyone thought the worst for you. It’s made things… _difficult_.”

            “But are _you_ alright?”

            “It doesn’t matter.” He deflected staunchly, _callously_ even, but there were cracks in his voice, tepid undoing’s that spoke to a deeper want. If they were alone, perhaps she’d be able to squeeze more out of him. “When are you coming back?”

            “I don’t know. A week, or two. Maybe more, it’s hard to say what any of them want.” She paused, lowering her voice, as though it made any difference whether or not John heard what she said. “Joseph’s asked me to stay in Holland Valley for the time being. He—he thinks it’ll be _beneficial_.”      

            The silence that fell between them was heavy, thick with the reverberation of an open line, that fuzzy emptiness, and when he spoke, it was in quiet whispers, harsh and low: “that’s not…good.”

            “I’ll tell him, it might be—”

            “It won’t.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “I know.”

            Anna sat quietly for a moment, staring at the radio when the other end went dead. She could feel John watching her, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him he met her gaze with iron sternness. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking, no more difficult than she found Jacob, but John wasn’t emotionally stifled, only an unseeing amalgamation of bleeding wants and needs. He wore everything so clearly yet buried so much. What was real, and what was whim, she could not tell. He opened his mouth to speak, to _snarl_ , she assumed, but the radio crackled, and he bit his tongue.

            “ _Pup_.”

            That earned a grin from John, and a flush bloomed onto her cheeks, taking root in the edges of her hair. It was a pet name, one that’d never bothered her before, but in the Baptist’s presence it seemed… _sinful._ Perhaps she’d be returning to the bunker sooner rather than later.

            “Jacob, how—”

            “Should I be greetin’ my brother as well? Can’t imagine John’d let you go anywhere without keeping you in his sights.” _Perceptive_ , as always. “I wouldn’t.” He added in a growl, the dry scratch of his hand moving through his beard making its way through the line. “When should I be there?”

            “Don’t do anything yet. I might stay for a little bit, maybe a week or two.” She didn’t like the way that sounded. So _imperfect_ , so _indecisive_. In the time before, Pratt would’ve chastised her for it, how fickle she could be.

            “Is that so. You don’ want me to come and getcha?” It didn’t sound like disappointment, more like…a _tease?_ But Jacob Seed didn’t tease, did he?

            “No.”

            There was a long pause, weighted with the terseness of his disbelief, and then: “Tomorrow morning. Eight a.m. Try not to oversleep.”

            “I don’t think that’s a good idea—” She tried to argue, but there was weakness in her voice. Anna _wanted_ him to come. She _wanted_ to see him again, and it was _selfish_ , but she couldn't help it. There was some gleeful joy to be found in knowing how far he would come for her. Even if it was just a short drive, but the announcement had a different effect on John who crossed the room in a huff, stealing the radio from her shaking hands, his tone sharp and threatened, nose crinkled at the thought of his big brother storming in on his personal paradise.

            John seethed into the radio, barking things into the void about lines of privacy, but Jacob had already gone, his voice replaced by flickering static. In a way, she was pleased he was coming. Pleased at the thought of seeing him again, aching at the faint imaginings of his touch, the passing of callouses against her weary skin. It wasn’t until John took her by the arm and lead her from the room that she realized she’d been pinching the wolf between her fingers, rolling it against weathered tips.

            Halls twisted before them, but Anna recognized their path. They were headed back for the living room, but John bypassed the fireplace, his grip still _firm_ upon her arm, fingers wound tight beneath her elbow as he pulled her along, and she struggled to keep up with his pace, the width of his steps twice that of her own. The front door loomed in front of them, and for a panicked moment Anna thought he was going to kick her outside. What drove her mind there, she did not understand, but John was beyond her comprehension. She breathed a sigh of relief when he released her hand, and paused by a coat rack, pulling a jacket tight over his shoulders.

            “Get a coat on.” He nodded to the remaining coats as he buttoned himself up, pulling the fabric straight until it lie against him neatly.

            “Where are we going?”

            “For a walk.”

            “It’s gotta be single digits out—”

            “You’ll survive.” He stuffed a thick denim jacket into her hands when she refused to choose, and she shrugged it on as quickly as she could, though apparently that was not enough. John pushed her hands to the side, pulling the collar tight around her neck before guiding her hands through the arms. She felt like a little girl again as he worked at the buttons, tucking the thick fleece lining away in the places it tufted through. “They’re gonna be big,” he grimaced as he stepped to the side, searching through a collection of discarded shoes for a pair of boots that he stuffed into her hands with careless ceremony. “But they’ll keep your feet dry.”

            “Thanks?”

            “Just put them on.”

            John didn’t seem as eager to help her with the boots as she worked out the knotted laces and pulled them tight enough so that her feet wouldn’t fly out while they were walking, but Anna could nearly feel the premonition of blisters bubbling up along her ankles. Why couldn’t he just leave her? Unless, of course, he had something to show her, a thought that both worried and _intrigued_ her. Part of her wanted to know more, to _understand_ , but so much of her told her to run, to _flee_ the moment the door swung open, though she couldn’t imagine she’d get quite far in his boots.

            “Come on.” He leaned into the door, propping it open on his hip as he swept her outside, and the sting of cold on her cheeks nearly brought tears to her eyes. Even in the brightness of the sun, she could see her breath, and the dryness of her lips became much more apparent in the brisk coolness of the air. “You’ve lived in the north your entire life, yet the cold still makes you cringe. Would that not make you weak?”

            “These sweatpants don’t exactly do much against the wind.”

            “Then be thankful we aren’t going far.”

            Anna raised a skeptical eyebrow, but took off after John when he stalked away, his steps long and wide, forcing her near to jogging to keep up with his pace. He didn’t say much as he walked, the sound of their boots shuffling through snow the only disturbance to their surroundings beyond the labored whistling of her breath. She’d been aware of the pain in her knees before this, the throbbing in her hips and the painful rubbing of bone upon bone, but it’d yet to strike her how badly he’d _wounded_ her, how deeply he’d cut, how heavy his hands had been. She wanted to ask him to slow down, to be _patient_ with her, but John knew no patience, and his mind was set on _something_.

            “Watch your step,” he cautioned when they entered the tree line, the freckled edge of his property where the world sloped downwards toward the water, and she eyed him cautiously, a bubbling fear in the pit of her stomach that worried he still saw her as _dirty_ , corrupt, needing of cleansing, but she followed him anyways, if only at a distance, blaming the ragged descent of earth for her slow, withering pace.

            Anna met him at the river’s edge, but John refused her gaze when she looked up at him, his eyes cast forward, studying the now frozen flow with his lower lip tucked in beneath his teeth. At least he couldn’t drown her now, but she had a feeling he’d find a way if that was his intention. John didn’t seem the type to be swayed by minor inconveniences.

            “ _This_ is where you began the path to rebirth. Do you remember it?” He asked, thick clouds of moisture wafting past his lips as he looked down at her. She’d expected to see mirth in his eyes, the telling edge of a game, but he’d closed her out. Nothing more lie in those blue depths.

            “How could I forget?”

            “I must confess something to you, Anna.” His voice had grown quiet, but in the stillness of winter, it still rang loud and clear against her ears, his fevered pitch rising high above the whining rustle of the trees as they bowed and wriggled in the wind, rubbing raw against themselves. “I wanted to kill you then. Even now, I find it difficult to understand why Joseph stopped me.”

            “That’s not surprising.” She nearly smiled at it, but settled on shaking her head, turning her gaze away from him and focusing on the distant shore, pulling his jacket a bit tighter around her shoulders, but John was far from finished. More so than Joseph, he seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice.

            “I find it strange, you know, how quickly you became indifferent to it all, especially when you fought so hard in the beginning. If you’d kept going like that, I have a feeling we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation. Either because I put you in a grave, or the other way around.” He paused, licking his lips, brow furrowing sharply. “It’s as though you find this fitting, a worthy punishment for your crimes.”

            “It might be. What better way to repent then to join those you harmed?”

            “Is it just repentance? Or have you found that you _like_ it here? A bit odd, maybe, but I wouldn’t put it past you to feel at home in a place where everyone wants you dead.”

            “Not everyone. Joseph seems to think quite highly of me.”

            “The Father thinks well of all his children. In his eyes, we are all immaculate, worthy of his love, even those that struggle to see the light.”

            “Including you?”

            That brought him some pause, a flicker of rage in his eyes, but it passed as quickly as it appeared, swallowed down with the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. “Like any family, we have our disagreements, and I will admit I can be more susceptible than my brothers to sin—though they are not invulnerable to temptation—but I’ve proven my conviction. He knows where my loyalties lie.”

            “And that’s enough to get you to Eden?”

            “I pray so.”

            They stood in silence for a long time, side by side, her shoulder barely inching above his bicep. Of the three, John was the shortest, or so he seemed, but only by a hair. Even in rage, he was the baby of the family, though the quickest to lash out when threatened. In her heart, she felt an itchy sort of kinship for him. A ragged belonging in his company. It wasn’t peaceful, it wasn’t complacent, but rather accepting. He knew the loneliness in her chest, that sullen darkness that wove itself between her ribs, thorns in her sides, like roses between her teeth, their roots buried deep within her lungs. He’d torn her open and witnessed that garden himself, yet he hadn’t passed judgement on her for it.

            “If given the chance to leave, would you stay with us?”

            It frightened her how quickly the answer leapt to her tongue, but Anna swallowed it down, forcing herself to look preoccupied with the concept of an answer, rolling her tongue between her teeth. “Yes. I think I would.”

            “Your confidence is inspiring.”

            “Well, not one’s asked me what I’ve wanted up until this point.” She shrugged, her tone very matter-of-fact, her arms folding over her chest.

            “Are you suggesting that you would have said _yes_ if I’d just asked you nicely?”

            “No, but I would’ve appreciated the gesture.”

            And John laughed into the bitter glow of midday, his cheeks stained red by the whipping wind, perfect teeth glinting in the honeyed light. She liked the sound of it, crisp and clean, barreling up from his throat like a freight train without destination, and she found it hard not to join him, the rupture of it contagious in all the wrong ways. The feeling of laughter made her chest hurt, the effort of it draining her legs of whatever strength remained in her, a weakness of which John took notice, his hand extended to her, but she flinched away from his touch, the burning on her chest now amplified to unbearable heights, and he withdrew with a scowl, all sense of joy lost to the wind.

            “Let’s go home.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A summary of this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVZul_oCWTE
> 
> Thanks for sticking around, ya'll! I know my schedule is all over the place, and I appreciate you all for being so patient with me. I read all of your comments, so I really do hope you know that I'm listening to you! The difficulty I had with this chapter came from characterization, specifically John, whom I love, but find difficult to write. He's just such an enigmatic character. He can be as cruel as he can be kind all in the same moment, and hopefully I was able to capture some small part of that here.
> 
> I've just got a gut feeling that he's coming off a little too soft, so I'll keep working on his characterization. Next chapter will be focused solely on John, so I'm planning on using that time to really nail down his character. 
> 
> Also, as a little side announcement, I will be going on vacation next Thursday! I'll be gone for almost two weeks, but I'll try to get something up that'll keep the story moving while I'm gone. Also, judgmental horses will show up in the next chapter. I had to cut them from this one because it went on a little tooooooo long.

            “Can’t you just tell him to go away?”

            “Can’t you?”  

            John’s scowl was not a thing she eagerly endured, but to back down would be an admittance of weakness, and between her stubbornness and his _unwieldy_ ego, they’d long surpassed that point. She’d submitted before, but something in _him_ , or at least the way that he looked at her, made it difficult for her to imagine bending the knee a second time. Jacob had won her obedience through coercion, but John lacked that _finesse_. It didn’t help that even just the thought of his touch set the little baby hairs at the back of her neck on end, for what did the Seeds have when they lacked the power of touch?

            “If you were to tell him you didn’t _need_ —” John began again, a thick tension in his voice, but she ignored his persistence, running over him with an eager tongue.

            “I want to see him.” She shrugged, moving away from the fireplace, maintaining John’s gaze as she paced the length of the living room, pulling at the itchy edges of his sweater. There were other clothes in the Ranch, she was _certain_ of it, but she imagined it tickled him to see her in his clothes. It would be a waste of breath to complain, to whine for something else. If her time in Hope County had taught her anything, it was that clean clothing was a luxury, regardless of who it came from, or how _deeply_ it stank of cedar.

            “Didn’t you promise Joseph you would stay?’

            “I said I want to see him, not that I’m going to _leave_ with him.”

            “That’s what you think,” he clucked his tongue, “but, if you _knew_ Jacob as well as I, you’d be worried he’s come to take you back to his _mountain paradise_. Jealous isn’t the word, but _possessive…_ I wouldn’t think it beyond him to feel as though he’s owed you.”

            “And you don’t?” She cocked an eyebrow at him and he grinned wolfishly, his perfect teeth on full display.

            “What do you think he wants from you?” He bit back in retort. “A wife?”

            “I pray not.”

            “Don’t make me _laugh_ ,” he rolled his eyes, “girl like you doesn’t strike me as the praying type.”

            “That’s fair.” She conceded with a shrug. It seemed to bother him that she was not more concerned with Jacob’s intentions. He looked keen to unravel the mystery of his brothers’ affection, but she felt that was a misdirection. Jacob was not the affectionate sort, and so his determination to drag her back to the Whitetail’s likely came from something else, and if Anna was going to put money on it, she’d gamble on a feeling of entitlement. Jacob’d taken her in, trained her, _broken_ her in some ways, rebuilt her in his image of perfection, why would he not feel that he was owed the boon of his efforts?

            The heavy clattering of the front door drew her out of reverie, and, before John could get a word in edgewise, Jacob strode into the living room. The sight of him made her hands itch. Part of her wanted to move toward him. To reach out a hand in familiarity, to _touch_ , as the Seed’s so often did, but it didn’t _feel_ right, so she stood still, and watched as John and Jacob greeted one another, forehead to forehead, hands on the other’s shoulders, muttering quietly to one another.

            He hadn’t come alone, Anna knew Jacob wasn’t so foolish to have traveled out of the mountains without brining a handful of Chosen with him, but he’d entered the Ranch on his own. Subconsciously, she searched the shadows for Staci, but knew she wouldn’t find him. Jacob wouldn’t let him leave St. Francis’ so willingly.

            Jacob rose a centimeter or two when his gaze fell upon her, his back straightening if only by a hair. He did not seem happy, but he didn’t seem angry either. If anything, his withering scowl lightened a touch, the tightness of his folded arms a smidge more relaxed. He didn’t smile, nor did he sigh at the sight of her, but he did unwind, if only slightly, and she reveled in that realization. She did not think him the type to openly pronounce affection, not because she felt he would be embarrassed by it, but rather because he didn’t need to prove the depth of his intentions. He had come for her. That alone was enough, but the thought of him taking her, stealing her away back to the mountains, brought a pinch to her belly, winding up her nerves until they threatened to twang undone.

            “ _Anna_.” It was gruff, a tumbling rumble that made her knees weak and her stomach plunge into her feet. The word beneath her collar itched, and she pulled John’s sweater a little tighter around herself. He stared at her, passive but _hard_ , as though he could set her alight with just the power of his gaze, yet he said nothing, and in the silence, she swore she could hear John swallow behind her, thick and _dry_. Jacob’s gaze lifted from her, and she sighed for her shoulders finally felt _light_ , but his eyes fixed on John, his expression now steady and unreadable. “Leave us.”

            She looked to John, silently praying that he wouldn’t leave, but simultaneously begging him to run, to let them be. The result of which was a constrained expression that fell somewhere between wrath and fear, and, judging by the look in his eye, he was similarly conflicted. She wanted Jacob to take her, to put her back in her place, where she _belonged,_ but the taste of freedom was sweet on her lips, or the closest she would get to it at Eden’s Gate. With John, she had a chance at regaining at least some semblance of her former self, but was that what she wanted? Who had she been, then, if not misguided?

            It was but a hazy shade at the edges of her waking mind, something that strolled the frayed edges of her nerves when she was not looking, the person she had been _before_ , but what good could come from returning to that? Even if she didn’t like it, some small part of her had to admit that the confession had made her feel… _lighter_ , in a way.

            “Don’t forget that you’re in _my_ house, and so long as she is in my care, _brother_ —”

            “I didn’t come all this way to have you chaperone our conversation, John.” It wasn’t a growl, his words were clear cut and succinct, but his patience was thinning, she could see it in the quirk of his eyebrows, the way his forehead wrinkled.

            “She’s free to say whatever she wants.”

            “Not when you’re here.”

            John seemed to consider his options, his mouth opening and closing a few times, a hand in his beard as he worked through the various consequences of refusal. Their dynamic was somewhat different from the one they shared with Joseph, who, while loving, seemed equally as capable of using that love as a tool to get what he wanted, but John and Jacob didn’t seem to be as wary of one another. They’d tear each other apart just as easily as they would build one another up, but their cards were on the table, no hidden secrets up their sleeves. Brotherhood, she assumed, was like that. With no siblings of her own, Anna had nothing to compare it to.

            “Joseph has _trusted_ me with her.” It hung on his tongue _: trust_ , an excuse to keep her under his thumb, but she’d given him that power willingly, an unwitting mistake on her part, but he seemed _keen_ to keep her, too much so for her liking. “If you’re so eager to interfere with the future that he has seen for her then perhaps you’d be better served by going to him, rather than intruding on my Thursday morning.”

            “Intruding?” That drew a laugh from Jacob, somewhat more strangled than she remembered. “If I knew my presence would be such a nuisance, I would’ve come sooner.”

            _Rage_ burned in John’s eyes, the puckered rise of his nose as it scrunched up at the behest of his curling lip, but Jacob remained placid. Annoyance bloomed in him, perhaps, the small canted upswing of his eyebrows, but where John seethed, Jacob simmered.

            “I think you should leave.” It’d been a mistake to speak, she knew it before the words left her mouth, but Anna stuck to the conviction of them, if only as a diffusion, her tongue trapped between her teeth. “Maybe just for a few minutes. Give us a chance to—hash things out, you know.”

            “Is that what you want?” He snipped back, a haughty retort, but the question itself bothered her. When did he care about what she wanted? She wouldn’t be in this position if he did, if any of them had simply _asked_ what she had wanted, but if they had, and she had answered _truthfully_ , she did not imagine they would have listened to her anyways.

            “Yes.”

            “Ten minutes.” He said, nodding to himself as though in reassurance of his own words. “That should be enough time to _hash it out_.”

            John did not go in grace, but rather a huff, leaving the staunch taste of his disapproval in his place, a sort of muggy cloud that hung between them as Anna searched for words, but the whole of the English language seemed to elude her as she stared at him, a blank softness in her eyes. Somewhere in the Ranch, a door closed, and only then did Jacob speak.

            “You survived.” If it was shock or genuine praise, Anna did not know, but she took it for both and buried it deep within her chest, pocketing it somewhere in the space between her heart and her lungs. “What happened to your face?” The swelling had gone, but the bruising remained, mottled green and yellow beneath her eye, a blessed kiss from the Book of Joseph.

            “Want to take a guess?”

            “Where else?”

            She knew better than to hide things from him, and part of her longed to show him, to help him map the fresh bruises over her stomach and weeping wounds along her arms. John had taken no specific interest in any part of her. Every inch of her body had been his canvas, the fabric upon which he had executed his masterpiece, but the wounds were widespread. He’d struck indiscriminately, chaotically, with no certain purpose, other than to cause pain, to draw forth sin with _rage_.

            “I don’t want to go back.” She offered him instead, her hands tight in front of her chest, as though _protecting_ the ragged word upon her shoulder, shielding it from his sight. “I think I should stay, for now. Joseph wants me to see the “root” of things, as he put it.”

            “And that’s what you really want; to stay here?” _With him?_

            “Yes.” She paused for a moment, then added: “it’s at Joseph’s request, but I made the decision to stay. No one _forced_ me to do it, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

            “No one asked you to say that?”

            “No.” She grimaced, meeting his eye, and then: “you don’t believe me.”

            “There are few things in this world I would not do to help my brothers. It is my _purpose_ to serve them, to _protect_ them, but I _know_ them, how persuasive they can be.” A hand hooked over her arm, tugging her forward, tearing apart her defenses, and he took her hand, not as a question, but in dominance, to squeeze the life from between her fingers, to _force_ a connection between them. “If they’ve gotten into your head—”

            “You’re one to talk.”

            The corner of his lip twitched up at that, quirking into an odd sort of smile, but his eyebrows folded inward, eyes narrowing at the accusation, disbelief and shock that she would even dare to utter such things. “You were weak when you came to me. Aimless, without _purpose_. All that you have, I’ve given to you, Anna. Do not forget that.”

            She could not help but flinch at that, the pull of her lip too high to hide, but she backed away from him regardless, nearly wrenching her hand from him, the sunburst scar on her shoulder pulling uncomfortably tight as she did so.

            “Did you come here because you’re worried about me, or because you’re afraid someone might steal your property?” The way he _spoke_ about her, as though she were a thing to be owned, a valuable asset, but, perhaps in his mind, she _was_. But did they all think that way? That she was some sort of trinket to be passed around between the three of them until her value expended itself? “Christ, you know, you really had me _thinking_ —”

            “Don’t get _soft._ One little kiss can’t’ve filled your head with all this.”

            “Not _that_.” She bit, vitriol on her tongue, a sudden wolfishness to her teeth, but all she could imagine was the scrape of his hands on her waist, the press of his lips to her throat. “Only that there might be some good to this. That _maybe_ I was missing something, that I had been blind to some sort of truth, but it’s just fuckin’ nonsense, isn’t it?” _Disappointment_ felt thicker than rage, sliding out along her tongue. She’d gone too far, let herself get caught up in the _feel_ of things, all while she ignored the warning signs. He’d tricked her. _Conditioned_ her into belief, but there were no convenient escapes available to her, unless the door was unwatched, something she highly doubted John or Jacob would be so foolish as to overlook.  

            Anna expected him to bite back at her, to throw words at her about the weak, to declare her unfit for his service and spit her out the way he had so many others, but he didn’t. If anything, he looked resigned to the thought of her disobedience, but tucked his hand into his coat pocket, and withdrew— _ah_. Patience had failed him, and he clenched a familiar box within his hands, eyes lidded, refusing to meet her gaze.

            “I thought we were past this,” he sighed, twisting the wind between his fingers, and her blood boiled at the sound, “I should’ve pulled it up from the root at the beginning. Squashed down that fever when I’d had the chance, but Joseph pled mercy. Wanted you to keep that fire, said it’d ‘help us in the long run’, that I had to ‘think about the future’.”

            “ _Please don’t_.” It pained her how weak it sounded, the burn of tears rising in her throat, but he only grimaced, shaking his head slowly, as though it couldn’t be avoided.

            “We need to get you back in line, pup. You’ll be better for it.”

            “No I won’t.” She insisted, but it fell quiet on her lips, a weak moan of dismay. “And you know it.”

            Jacob made to respond, something perfunctory, she imagined, but she took the chance while she had it and slapped the box out of his hands. It clattered to the ground and rolled onto it’s top, a mercy she was silently thankful for, and he shot her a look of mild bemusement, as if her efforts to remain _herself_ were cute, rather than admirable. She wedged herself between him and the box when he stepped forward to retrieve it, but her presence was not a deterrent. His hands found her shoulders with ease, attempting to push her to the side, but she dug in her heels and locked her knees, pressed back against him with all her might, but even the lightest of his touches seemed impossible to bear.

            “Whatever game you’re playing—”

            “It isn’t a game.” She spat. “I don’t like being like that.”

            “Doesn’ matter what _you_ like.” His hand skated upwards, fingers threading around her throat, his thumb quietly resting against her pulse. “ _Step aside_ , pup. We’re gonna make this right, put you back on the path you were _always_ meant to walk.”

            “I _don’t_ —”

            He squeezed lightly, enough to catch her breath, and then harder when she fought it, scrambling against his grip with heightening fear. A gleam hung in his eyes, one she’d never seen before, but his expression was passive, unreadable. He didn’t seem troubled by her weeping, the horrid gags she choked out when the pressure changed, the clawing of her nails up and down his forearm, dragging over scars and tearing open fresh wounds with ignorant disregard. In a moment of desperation, she kicked outward, striking his knee with enough force to knock him off his balance and his hand loosened enough for Anna to stumble away, her own fingers running over sensitive skin, pressing against her throat as though that would lessen the pain.

            Jacob bowed to pick up the box, but Anna reared her head, throwing herself at him from across the room. She caught him about the middle, relying purely on the weight of her body to topple him over, and—in a sense—it _worked_. He hit the ground with a low _oof_ , but in a flash he was above her, hands on her wrists, pinning her down, his knees spread wide on either side of her, and she bucked upwards attempting to wriggle out beneath him, but he _snarled_ something dangerous between her lips, his face now _very_ close to hers.

            When he spoke to her, it was through grit teeth, the whole of his weight upon her, and she strained to breathe beneath the press of his chest, puffing loudly beneath him. “ _You belong to me_.” And he closed to gap between them, his head canting slightly to the side to lock his lips to hers, the gruffness of his beard overridden by the clacking of his teeth against hers and she _squealed_ at the contact, doing everything in her power to turn her head to the side, to wrench away from him, but he held her firm, fingers gripping so tightly she _knew_ they’d leave bruises in their wake.

            “Get off of me.” She seethed when he broke for air, lips swollen, but a wild crimson burned in his eyes, the rush of blood, a flushed sort of excitement that made her stomach lurch into her throat. He wasn’t going to let her go, but what frightened her more was that the creeping thought in the back of her head that she didn’t mind being trapped by him. It felt safe, _familiar_ , comfortable, his weight on her chest not a burden but a reflection of softness, the will to protect.

            When he kissed her again, she bit at his tongue, earning a hollow laugh from his throat that poured into her mouth, the heat of his breath almost stifling between them, but he refused to pull away. If anything, the kiss deepened, the coppery tang of blood mingling between them. At some point, he relinquished his grip upon her wrists, and though she brought them to his shoulders with the intention of pushing them away, he spoke into her words that tasted so sweet they nearly _stung_.

            “Come home to me.” It sounded unnatural on his tongue, a _lie_ as they slipped between them, but she swallowed them gladly, her hands in his coat, wound up in tattered fabric. “You _belong_ with me, at my side, among my _Chosen_.”

            “How _greedy_.” It might’ve seemed a joke, but the fear in her gaze was real, burning through her with every inch she managed to gain out from beneath him.

            “Don’t you start,” it was almost a jest, but an undertow of malice nearly dragged her under, “you make me covetous. You make me _jealous_.”

            “Envy, then.”

            “I take what I want. By will, or by force, but I don’t think I’ll have to force you, will I?” It was soft, _gentle_ almost, murmured into her ear as his lips crawled along her jaw. “I should’ve kept you while I could.”

            “How much of this is real?” She asked him quietly, a sudden uneasiness in her stomach, but he didn’t grace her question with an answer, choosing instead to grip her by the chin in an effort to force her gaze upon him, but she wrenched herself to the side with such force her cheek _slapped_ the ground, rattling her jaw and every tooth in her mouth.

            “That’s up to you.”

            “It feels like possession.”

            “Maybe it is.” In that moment he seemed so much more serious. The lilting cadence had vanished from his voice, replaced with gravely uncertainty, and his _eyes_ were as soft as she imagined Jacob could force them, but there was vulnerability in that, in how he crouched over her, her hands free to punch, and slap, and _claw_ if she wished it, but Anna withheld for all the good it would do to remain complacent. “Joseph’s taken a _shine_ to you. That’s enough for me to want to keep you around.”

            “What about you? What do you want?”

            “Doesn’t matter what _I_ want.” The error of the phrasing didn’t seem to strike him immediately, but her broken gaze gave it away. It didn’t _hurt_ to hear, she tried not to take it to heart, but there was something choking about how he said it. If not for her sake, then for his. He cared not for himself, for his own desires if they even lived within the shell of his being. “You are resilient, but self-sacrificing. A good soldier, despite your disobedience and self-destructive tendencies. I _enjoy_ your presence more than I do the presence of others, is that what you wanted to hear?”

            “I don’t know.” _Yes._

            It was only the croaking whine of the floorboards that drew his eyes from her, and when she tilted her head back, craning her neck so that her chin was unnaturally high, all she could see were the tops of socks creeping out of slippers, but the faint airplane print gave it away.

            “You understand _now_ why I didn’t want to leave you two alone.”  

            Jacob rose to stand above her, his hands at his sides, boots wedged into her hips, pointed gaze fixed on John, and from her place on the floor she felt glad not to be between them, teeth bared, and hackles raised. She would have lain there forever had John not stooped to lift her, his hands tucked beneath her arms, pulling up with enough force to tug a bitter whine from her, the pull in her shoulders rising to a splitting bite as she staggered upwards and, eventually, to her feet.

            “Just _ten_ minutes, and—”

            “Don’t delude yourself, John. If you’re so eager to catch sinners, you should check _your_ own house first. Fall’s End looks like it’s about ready to pop again if _you_ don’t do somethin’ about it.”

            “It’s being handled.” The inflection of the words was near murderous, borderline threatening, though John had to look up at Jacob when he spoke, chin hitched upwards as he straightened his back, gaining an extra centimeter or two, but the eldest Seed still towered above him, looming with all the grace of a very cross bear, and Anna made it a point to step away from them, John’s hands leaving her with no real qualm or quarrel.

            No good would come from getting in between them. It wasn’t a certainty, of course, but Anna felt it in her gut, that same winding terror that came from staring down a cliff face, never quite able to glimpse the bottom, but always certain that it was there, just _waiting_ for her to take one little misstep and tumble into the darkness below. They would tear her apart if she dared interfere, so she was reduced to watching, her fingers stiff at her sides, the slope of her shoulders somewhat more _timid_ than it had been before, whatever power she had earned from denying Jacob’s right to dominion lost in the rattles of his throat.

            “By who? _You_?”

            “And I assume Eli’s been taken care of by now, hasn’t he?” John snapped, teeth bared, nose crinkled as he ground out the words. “There’s no _way_ you’d leave your little sanctuary unattended with that madman still on the loose, right?”

            Whatever calm restraint remained in Jacob vanished at that, and the tight quirk of his lips wrenched back into a snarl, all hint of poise and certainty cast to the wind, but the rise of his hands never came. They clenched and tightened, the ragged protrusion of bone like white mountains cut through bloody skies, the riddles of his scars pulling tight, but the dull _thunk_ of fist upon flesh that she had nearly been _expecting_ never came. The very same disobedience that would have earned her a lifetime in the cages and a decade of welts resounded in a big fat _nothing_ for John.

            It made sense, perhaps, that Jacob would not take easily to _beating_ the snark from his brother, but somewhere in her head, it didn’t align with expectation, and something in her heart warmed at that, a fact that disgusted her just as quietly as it intrigued her. Though they would taunt, neither brother would raise hands against the other. Though they were close enough to bite, they would do little more than snarl.

            “Anna,” she didn’t realize he’d called her name until he said it a second time, the patience in his voice wearing thin; “ _Anna_.” Jacob extended a hand to her, palm open and facing up, and for a moment, she considered it, perhaps longer than he would have liked, but he made no move toward her, his face only falling when she stepped away, her jaw set like iron.

            Going with Jacob was a return to blood, the _ire_ and grit of the cages, the illusion of complacency, that she was content doing his bidding, opening veins for him and spilling her worth at his feet, and maybe she _was_. Maybe it was what she deserved, to live beneath his thumb, to waste away straining to once again feel the smoldering glory of his approval, of his _affection_ , but was it wrong to pursue the taste that John had given her? That momentary _clarity_ brought screaming to light through pain, the sheer purity of unburdened _sight_.  

            “I gave Joseph my word.”

            “So be it.”

            It was childish, in a way, how he stomped past her, but no resignation lived in the curve of his spine. He left as he had come, stiff and unyielding, all walls and tempered steel, and she followed in his wake, the scuff of her feet soft compared to the _clomp_ of his boots.

            “I know the way back, _pup_ , you don’ need to show me out.” The door to the Ranch clacked open with a _slap_ , wood against wood, all grain and puffing snow.

            “I wanted to say goodbye.” She paused at the top of the steps, socks refusing to go much further into the snow, the soles of her feet already growing damp in the icy chill, and Jacob turned to meet her from the bottom step, one foot above, the other below, the twinge in his knee indicative of fervent indecision, heightened only by the impatient flick of his eyes.

            Behind her, she felt the shade of John, the croaking press of his weight against the door, lingering not too far behind her, but she appreciated his distance, despite the suffocating feel of his gaze, the slow crawl of it along her shoulders.

            “Ain’t much more to say.”

            “What if I need you?” She asked, narrow fingers extended to him as though in farewell, but she did not reach for his hands, but instead the ragged comfort of his cheek, and he suffered the touch for all he could bear, enduring it even when she cupped the other, his chin inclined, tilted toward her in the closest reflection of longing she imagined he would express.

            “The offer stands.” Beneath her fingers, she could feel his jaw tighten, the quirk of muscles as they worked themselves to strength. “Remember your path, Anna.” _Don’t stray._ Part of it felt a threat, but the impression she gleaned was encouragement, his hand in her hair, tipping her forward, bracing her head against his. Skin to skin, the familiar press of a lonely goodbye and a million hellos, the grace of his lips too far to reach, yet there was no insistence in him, no encouragement, only peace, and this alone seemed _enough_.

            She could have fallen when his hands left her, but the sturdiness of John replaced them, his fingers tented on her shoulders, presiding over her as a hawk did its prey, the stench of exhaust burning out the warmth of cedar as Jacob left them on the porch, the sullen silence of Holland Valley wide and pronounced in the fuzzy morning glow, but no amount of wintry softness could make John's touch bearable. Even the softest of grazes made her bones feel itchy, and she wriggled away from it, heading indoors, intent on disappearing, but the clatter of the door made it well and apparent that he was behind her once more, ever keen to live in her footfalls.   

            “Knowing Jacob, I’d say that went well.”

            “Sure.” She paused for a moment, stripping damp socks from her feet, letting them lie where they fell beside the door. 

            “Were you expecting something more?” He pressed, the hint of a tease on his tongue, seeking to draw a reaction from her, to entice her lesser qualities, but she shut him out as best she could, making a beeline for the stairs to the second floor. She could not hide from him, this was his space, his  _home_ , but she would try. She took the stairs in twos, but John's stride outmatched her own, and he lashed out at her on the landing, that tiny precipice above the living area, his nails like daggers in her wrist. “Did you _want_ him to take you back? To steal you away?” 

            “No.”

            “You don’t have to lie to me, Anna.”

            “I’m not lying, what good would it do me to lie to you?” Her eyebrows had peaked, the hint of a snarl on her lips, the strain of the morning wearing down upon her shoulders, and she wrenched against his grip, nearly dragging him forward across the walkway, and he nearly gaped at her, the glassiness of his eyes pitched and perfectly cerulean. “ _Let go of me_.”

            “How you so _eagerly_ let him into your space when he could _crush_ your skull without a second thought,” he released her wrist only to mime the action, as though she would not have understood without a visual aid, “yet, if I so much as look at you, you recoil. Not even Joseph seems to strike fear in you, and it is because of him that you are _here_.” There it was, that _rumbling_ baritone, shrieking up through his throat, hitting the walls with such painful resonance she feared it had torn through him like a knife.

            “Think about what you’ve _done_ to me, then, if you cannot imagine why I would be wary of your touch.” Her jaw had locked tight, every vein and muscle in her throat striking forward against her skin in weary rebellion against her flesh, and he leered down at her, patience wearing so thin that it nearly burned through him.

            “What _I_ have done?” She’d offended him, it shone in his eyes, a vitriolic disbelief that she would so much as imply that he had ever crossed her. “I _healed_ you.”

            “By scarring me forever.”

            “The pain was _worth_ it, you _thanked_ me for it, or do you not remember that? How you wept for it at the end?” He spat at her, but the flicker of recognition in her eye only drove him forward. She _had_ begged for it, hadn’t she? Thanked him as he’d carved her sin into bone, sobbed for the pain, and the clarity of it all. In the deepest halls of her memory, she recalled that as a delusion, words she had only ever spoken to herself, but _pain_ had a habit of loosening tongues. “I cannot tell what you enjoy more, the prolon of your sin, or the vehemence with which you deny it. You put on such a lovely act.”

            “You are— _insufferable_.” It was hard not to growl the word at him, so she settled for crushing it between her teeth, swallowing it back with egregious effort.

            “ _Snake_.”

            And she struck him, her hand moving so quickly, she did not realize she had done it until he had staggered back, the crack of a _slap_ still tingling in the air, reaching for the railing in exaggerated strokes. Perhaps he was right, maybe she did enjoy the drama, but he fed on it, _lived_ for it, and she was nearly certain he would die for it.

            His retaliation was swift, and he gripped her by the front of her sweater, pushing her backwards, and the solid _thunk_ of her skull meeting the wall brought gave rise to fuzzy stars that danced in and out of sight. For a moment she dangled, dazed, unsure of how her feet had left the ground, or why the press of his knuckles in her shoulders did not feel more threatening, and then she began to thrash, bare feet struggling for grip upon anything that would lend itself to her. John kept her pinned, propped up on the strength of his forearms, the solid, sturdy feel of his thigh wedged up between her legs, keeping them at an angle she could only define as awkward.

            “We have given _everything_ to you, and yet you spit it back like some _petulant_ child.” He seared the words into her cheeks as she twisted away, cheek scraping against wood as she searched for respite, desperate to be separate from him, to be pulled apart, but he held her tight, the width of his hand spanning the column of her throat with unnerving ease. “I brought you _salvation_ , I _saved_ you, don’t you see that?”

            “I didn’t _ask_ for any of this.”

            “We did it because we _love_ you.” It sounded so hollow from his lips. _Love_ , a word she was almost certain he had never known in it’s true form. “You didn’t need to ask to be saved, becauae despite all that you have done to us, every brother and sister _you_ slaughtered in cold blood, we loved you _enough_ to bring you to the light.” He softened then, if only for a moment, the shine in his eyes genuine and wet. “The Project can help you, Anna, if you would just _let us_.”

            “And what if I did?” It strained against her throat, a flash of truth so shy it sounded like rain, the whimpering whisper of it wet against her lips, but she blamed that on the press of his palm, the tightness of his fingers around her throat, not quite choking, but very close to it, and she clutched at his forearm, cutting bleeding lines into black ink. “What would become of me? Who would I be if I didn’t—” _fight?_

            She noticed it first in the twitch of his eye, a sudden flickering blur of emotion, turbulent seas chased by the cresting sun, a blooming sort of recognition. He seemed to want to hurt her just as much as he seemed liable to embrace her. The wiry strain of muscle was still clear in the pronounced veins along his neck, the sharp edges of his collar bone shining proudly with fresh sweat and melted snow, yet for all his darkness, John’s breath began to calm.

            “You’re afraid.” He said quietly, as though the revelation were holy, worthy of his reverence. “Forgive me, for I was blind, but now I see.” Twisted fingers loosened in her sweater, and his knee withdrew, allowing her to settle on the ground, a woefully composed heap, gripping at the walls for weak purchase. “Apologies, Anna, I—” he breathed, smoothing his hands against his shirt, eyes wandering away from her, “I know that I do not help my own case, but you don’t exactly make it easy,” he trailed off gently, his face turned away from her, hands in his hair, pulling tight into shaking fists.

            “That’s no excuse.”

            “ _You_ struck _me_.” It rose again, that burgeoning rage, bristling at the surface of his composure, but he seemed to swallow it down, his head in his hands, dry fingers smoothing over his face with the softest of sounds. “Would you not retaliate if I did the same unto you?”

            “Would you like me to show you all the places you’ve left your mark?”

            He shot her a look of incredulous disbelief, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, yet no words came to him, even when she began to lift the hem of the sweater, intent on following through with her threat, but his hands covered her own, silencing her with swift grace.

            “Trust in me, Anna. All that you have endured, all that you have _suffered_ , it was with purpose and intent.” John seemed to rise then by a few inches, a stiff grimace relieving his face of it’s pleasant reverie as he loomed over her, needy fingers straightening his shirt. “But, if you are intent on insisting your disbelief, then I will have to show you the way.”

            “No, not—”

            “ _Trust in me_.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's good at emotional manipulation. 
> 
> Also, I'm alive! I'm not letting this monstrosity go just yet! 
> 
> I had to break for school, I'm a full time college student (I've probably mentioned that before) so that's where a lot my time and dedication goes. I had a bio/chem combo this semester that really rocked my world. I also took November to do NaNo, and flesh out some of my personal work, so I've been a bit all over the place. Sorry for making ya'll wait, and I apologize for not being more open with you guys. 
> 
> I'll try to keep you updated, and I'll try to use my Tumblr more to stay active with you guys. Always feel welcome to reach out to me there :) 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around, and, as always, thank you so much for reading <3 I love and appreciate your kind words and comments, they always make my day.

_Howling_.

            Even in her dreams, Anna swore she could hear the whipping of wind against the Ranch’s sturdy walls. It filled her head with restless things, bottomless chasms, gut-wrenching falls into echoing pits, but then—there were other things, softer things, or at least they _seemed_ soft. There was a moment in white, a room with no doors, only windows overlooking fields of green, but she was too high up to jump down, yet too low to climb up. She could go nowhere, but just _standing_ where she was seemed useless.

            _Fear_ , a nameless thing that clawed at the back of her mind, an urge to supersede, to _progress_ , to do anything but wait for the inevitable, but it never came. There was no hole she could wriggle herself through, no hand she could take to lift herself out of the bar-less cage, only herself, and a sinking sort of dread that plummeted down the back of her throat, tearing out her insides as it went.

            Anna did not wake with a start, but rather grumbled back to consciousness, stirring in a mountain of rumpled blankets to find that the sun had yet to rise. A clattering _crack!_ beyond her window forced her upwards in a fluff of knotted hair, but there was nothing to see through the glass but a white wall of flurries. She couldn’t even see the driveway from where she sat, the flicker of the porch lights duller than ever. Whatever had fallen, or _broken_ for that matter, could’ve been feet from the house and she wouldn’t’ve seen it.

            Rolling out of bed, Anna stood just as the bedroom door croaked open, and John peered inside, expression passive, lightening only when his gaze fell upon her. Though she did not return the quiet kindness in his gaze—hers felt bitter and _exhausted_ —he didn’t seem to mind. Her door was rarely ever closed, a _luxury_ John did not allow, but a room was better than a cage, so Anna didn’t feel it worth the effort to argue.

            “Good, I won’t be waking you.” He spoke gruffly, his voice thick and groggy with exhaustion as he stepped through the doorway, and she grimaced at the state of him. He hadn’t changed since she’d last seen him, but his shirt was no longer pressed, it’d gone wrinkly at the elbows and waist, the pull of it no longer crisp, but rather lopsided, half-hanging out of his jeans. Hadn’t he gone to bed? She couldn’t remember hearing him climb the steps to his room. “Move aside.” He waved a hand almost dismissively as he crossed the room, his haphazard haste preceding him.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “I thought I heard something hit this side of the house.”

            “I didn’t.” She peered over his shoulder as he cocked his head, doing everything in his power to see along the side of the Ranch without actually opening the window.

            “Must we argue about everything?” _Yes_.

            “Do you see anything?”

            “No.”

            “Is it that bad out?” The question itself was rhetorical, but he took it upon himself to answer, his cheek very elegantly squished against the glass.

            “Yes.”

            Dissatisfied with his inspection, but beyond the use of her window, John grumbled something she couldn’t hear, before wheeling about and heading for the door, but he paused for a moment at the frame, fidgeting back to her, as though he could not make up his mind whether or not whatever it was he had to say was worth the effort. Evidently it was.

            When he turned back to her, she’d already half crawled back into bed, her legs dangling in mid-air, and a terse sort or press fell to his lips before he spoke, his finger raised into the air: “we’ve had this discussion before, but you’re _aware_ that you talk in your sleep, aren’t you?”

            “Mostly.” She answered blearily, suddenly very aware of the hour, and the painful exhaustion that weighed down her stinging eyelids. More than anything, she wanted him to leave. To return to whatever _hole_ he’d crawled out of and let her be, but John seemed content to linger, the steadiness of his shoulders dulling somewhat as his figure relaxed.

            “Can you remember what you’ve said when you wake up?”

            “Not often.” She cocked an eyebrow, the roots of a sickening hunch taking hold in her belly, the certainty that he was taking aim at some frailty in herself that she could not see. “Why do you ask?”

            “Y’know,” a lofty finger circled the air, “sound travels through the Ranch fairly clearly. When you _babble,_ I can hear you in the living room.”

            “It’s not exactly something I can control.”

            “I wasn’t accusing you of doing it on purpose.”

             He was circling now, digging at something without exactly _pressing_. It wasn’t like John to be so indirect, but, then again, maybe it was.

            “Well, did I say anything interesting?”

            “You sounded,” he paused, every wrinkle at the corners of his eyes proud and pronounced as his face scrunched up in concentration, “ _distressed_.”

            “Everyone has nightmares, John.”

            “Joseph calls them ‘symptoms of a restless mind’.” John smiled as he spoke, something quiet and weary, barely visible beneath the scruff of his beard, how _old_ it made him seem, but she caught it when he looked to her, his eyes fixed upon her face, the effect of which was…disconcerting. “Even in sleep sin makes itself known.”

            “Shouldn’t you be getting to bed?”

            “If there’s something on your mind that—”

            “It’s a little late,” _early_ , “for an interrogation, don’t you think?”

            John huffed a laugh, but the crinkling halo around his eyes was more lonely than joyful, the quirk of his lips somewhat dry in his hesitation. “I made a promise to you that I’ve yet to make good on, an oversight I intend to rectify.”

            “Can we talk about it in the morning?”

            “Certainly.” But his mouth hung open, as though he meant to say something else, but before she could rise to usher him out, John took his leave, and Anna flopped back into the pillows.

            Morning came in a hurry, rushing through the forest to knock upon the Ranch’s door in a clattering roar, but the sun was dull, dimmed by the grey clouds and persistent overcast of winter. Anna dressed in slow succession, adding layers to layers, pants under pants, long sleeves under sweaters. Clothes still fit her poorly, hung off her frame in odd shapes, obscuring any sway that might’ve remained in her hips, but at least John’d seen reason in searching out pants that would fit her.

            A loose t-shirt was one thing, but loose jeans was an accident waiting to happen.

            “Your hair’s wet.”

            He’d been waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, ever the penitent man, pacing in circles like an anxious dog. Rest did not become him.

            “I wasn’t aware.” She said dryly, attempting, as ever, to sneak distance between them, but John knew few boundaries, even as the fresh sheen of a shower still clung to her rosy cheeks. The corners of his lips ticked up. _Oh_ , how he loved their little games, the pettiness between them, or such he professed.  

            “It’ll freeze out there, you know.” He lifted a hand, as though to touch her, to push back her hair, wrap a strand around a nimble, boney finger, but it fell aside to brush a bit of lint off her sweater. “Get a coat on. I’ll see if I can find you a hat.”

            “I can’t see how that’ll be much help. It’ll still freeze, hat or not.”

            “You’ll want it.” The grin he offered her was smug and knowing, but there was weariness there. Her petulance was wearing on him, or she hoped it was.

            Something in him drew it out of her, made her _want_ to fight him, to sneer at his back when he turned from her. Jacob had shocked her into submission, or rather _bent_ her until she fit his mold of perfection, but John lacked such finesse. He rubbed her in all the wrong ways, grated against her nerves until the chafe became too much to bear. The Ranch helped, she could sequester herself when she tired of him, and he of her, but it was never permanent. He always found her.

            Stuffed into a familiar coat, Anna barely had time to adjust her bunched up sweater underneath, let alone tuck her damp hair into the knit cap John had lent her, before he was shuffling her out the door. They left the Ranch in a hustling mess, John at good step or two ahead of Anna as she watched each step with growing apprehension. There was no way of knowing where he was taking her, and the amount of Peggie’s camped out at Seed Ranch only seemed to have increased since her arrival. An extra precaution, she assumed, a bit of encouragement to keep her in place.

            “Where are we going?” Anna breathed into the cold, her breath trailing behind her in thick white puffs. There was no harm in asking, but John only grinned at her over his shoulder, wide and wicked. 

            Anna sat with her hands between her knees, neck craned to see out the window as John drove, trying her damndest to sit still, but the truck seemed keen to rock and bumble over barely plowed roads. She wondered briefly who _managed_ that—if the cult had taken over all municipal duties in their efforts to expand their reach, but found that time wasted in pondering such details was not really _worth_ the effort.

            “You’re quiet.” John said, and Anna turned to look at him, but his eyes were not on her, his attention—thankfully—on the road ahead of them.

            “Conversation with you always seems to lead to an argument.”

            He made a strangled sort of noise, somewhere between _well_ and _actually_ , before squeezing out: “it doesn’t have to.”

            “No matter what, we always end up at each other’s throats.” There was levity in her tone, but it was as forced as her gaze as she shifted in her seat, knees squeezing down tight on her clasped hands.

            John, surprisingly, said nothing. At least, not at first. When he did speak, it was in false tongues, a ginger sort of proposition that rushed blood to her face so fast her ears nearly burst into flame: “might I suggest that our constant passing down that road is a _very_ conscious choice on your behalf?”

            “You may not.”

            “I’ve been more than amicable to you, Anna. I’ve opened my home, shared my _comforts_ with you, and yet this constant rebuffing—” she opened her mouth to snap at him, chew out a curse, but he spoke over her, a finger raised as though he was chastising a _child_ , “do you have any idea how _frustrating_ you are?”         

            “Oh, do _enlighten_ me, John.” She snarled, the pressure of her nails digging into her palms, so sharp she _knew_ she’d drawn blood. “How am _I_ a frustration to you?”  
            “And there’s the bait.” He slapped a hand against the wheel, aggressively over gesturing to prove a point. “You lead me into a fight, and for _what?_ What do you gain from it but more _frustration_? I’m not the only one exhausted by this arrangement.”

            “And you’re so sure of that?”

            “It’s not exactly difficult to tell that you don’t want to be here. You’d rather be back in that fuckin’ wilderness, rotting your brain,” he grumbled out something else, but Anna couldn’t pick it up he spoke it so softly, ground it so finely between his teeth.

            “If you’re going to insult me you could at least speak loud enough for me to hear you.”

            “We’re _here_.” He growled, casting her a parting glance before tearing the keys from the ignition and sliding out of the truck, exiting in a puff of cedar and sharp winter air.

            Anna followed slowly, clambering down to solid ground in a softer procession, holding by the door as she studied the sight before her. A barn. Wide and fat, overflowing with Peggies and crates, stuffed sacks filled to the brim with…grain? As far as she could see, there wasn’t a Bliss flower in sight. The absence of which was both worrying, and soothing.

            John called her name, gesturing for her to follow, and she closed the door behind her, setting off toward the barn in his wake, but they paused before the opening, his hand tight on her upper arm, passed off as some sort of _affection_.

            “ _Best behavior._ ” He hissed, lips so very near her ear she could feel the dampness of his breath along her neck. “Understood?”

            “Yes.”

            His grin was sly, the corners of his lips as sharp as his teeth, but if he wanted to _rub_ something in her face, he didn’t, choosing instead to usher her inside, a firm hand perched upon her shoulder, using it as a method of steering her in the direction he wanted. She let him, played complacent as she studied the interior, the Peggies that toiled within.

            They regarded her curiously. Spared her a gaze before moving on with their work. Some sifting through crates, some doling out scoops of grain into burlap sacks of varying sizes, while others hung out what she assumed to be herbs, clipping them to the rafters.

            “What are they doing?”

            “Preparing for the Collapse.” John said it so matter-of-factly, his hand still resting on her shoulder, but his arm was now around her back, as though he was holding her proudly, displaying his works to her like some sort of scion. “Some of the seeds from the fall harvest are collected and taken into cold storage, the rest packed for feed. We’ll need plenty to sow the garden when we rise. Herbs, jams, the more we can make ourselves, the better.”

            “And for the things you can’t?”  
            “Our cause has earned a number of very generous donators, and the sum my adoptive parents left me has—sufficed to fill many of the gaps.”

            She had questions now, _thousands_ of them, but John swept them away, waving over an unsteady figure. In the beginning, after the crash, after—everything, all the Peggies had looked the same to her, wild and bleary eyed, but they hadn’t been people then. Just the wall between herself and freedom.

            “Anna, this is Rose.” John facilitated their introduction with an odd sort of geniality, a softness reminiscent only of the Father.

            “Blessed day.” Rose nodded, a pleasant smile pulled across full lips, her cheeks round and pink, pinched to roses by the cold. If Anna had to take a gander, she’d put her in her late fifties, her straw-colored hair streaked with starlight, hazel eyes riddled with nuggets of gold. “Another hand for the reaping?”

            “There’s much in store for this one,” there was that pride again, welling up in his throat, spilling out onto his tongue, “but there’s still a bit of cleansing to be done. Our dear Anna struggles to be free of her sins.”

            _Wait_ —

            “Well, a little hard work can do wonders for a restless soul.” The way Rose said it made Anna’s gut squeeze uncomfortably, ricocheting up to slide behind her ribs.   

            “Precisely.”

            “Come with me,” she held out a hand, and Anna recoiled slightly, unsure and uncertain of what to do next, but John was already ushering her forward, his hand gentle against her back, “don’t be shy, child, we won’t bite. There’s space enough here for all of us, and more work than we have hands.”

            “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.” Anna professed quietly, allowing the other woman to steer her away, the heat of John’s gaze heavy on the back of her head as they wove between sorting tables.

            “Nonsense. Every hand helps,” Rose reassured, a small hand patting Anna’s back softly, “even in sin, we contribute to the Project. Every step forward is a step toward Eden, after all.”

            Rose set her at a packing table, scooping grain from crates and stuffing it into waiting sacks. It was a slow process, although not visibly straining, but it was _cumbersome_. The back and forth motion eventually began to pull at her knees, scooping and stuffing, twisting and turning. Once a bag was done, she’d lift it over her shoulder and deposit it near the door with its designated group, awaiting transport to some distant destination. It wore at her back, twisted her spine into odd angles, but Anna didn’t complain. Whether she liked to admit it or not, it _did_ feel good to work, to strain just a little bit. It put her mind at ease, helped her forget where she was in the moments when she was alone, scooping and bowing, bending and standing.

            The Peggies sang as they worked, something she might’ve found odd just months ago, but now found endearing, the woeful echoes of their voices soothing to her quickly tiring hands. The tunes were familiar, Eden hymns, but she didn’t know the words, and settled for tapping along with them, her boot scuffing the ground in rhythm with their cadence.

            For the most part they worked around her, a grace she was thankful for. The alternative, she worried, was confrontation, and so the silence suited her, a quiet, regulated sort of suffering. It was enough to be free of the Ranch, but John was anything but subtle, his attention a constant presence, even when his back was to her, he was watching, _waiting_ for something.

            During her time at St. Francis’ she’d been free to move as she’d pleased within it’s walls. The Peggies there hadn’t been _kind_ , exactly, but they’d made idle chat with her. It’d helped to make her feel less _alone_ , as did her constant sightings of Pratt, but John hoarded her away, kept her locked in the Ranch to ponder her existence, to wallow in her _sin_. Guards rarely spoke to her on their rounds, and _he_ seemed so hell bent on antagonizing her that even _considering_ leaning on him for any type of emotional support seemed moot.

            With Jacob, Peggies hadn’t seemed like _Peggies_. Not the one’s she’d spent months hunting, anyways. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like Jacob’s faction existed outside Eden’s Gate entirely. Value was physical, how well you could shoot a gun, what _strength_ you could offer the Project, but with John it was less succinct. She felt drifty with him, lacking in purpose, and so the sifting of grain, the shifting it from one home to the next, was a lungful of fresh air she hadn’t known she needed.

            “Anna,” if possible, Rose said her name more sweetly than John, the lilt of it like honey on her tongue. Brushing her hands free of dust and grain, she meandered away from her post, and Rose turned her to the loft, physically guiding her in the right direction. “Up the ladder and to the left, we’re runnin’ a bit low on burlap. If there’s anything left, send it down on the pulley.”

            The loft was— _unsteady_ to say the least. Even from the ground floor it’d looked menacing, but now that she was standing in it, Anna felt even less at ease. It was a nice vantage point though, and from where she stood, she could see the whole operation, except— _John_. He was nowhere to be seen on the ground, a realization that nicked at her nerves. If he was gone, then she was truly alone, wasn’t she? An unnerving thought, to say the least.

            Rose was watching her from below, bright eyes tuned in on her, and so Anna searched, digging through dust and musk to uncover nothing but old hay and colonies of mice dug in for the winter. She stifled a sneeze in her elbow, snuffing it back as she called down to Rose: “I don’t see anything!”  

            Disappointment was plain on her face, spoken louder in the hands on her hips, but she gestured for Anna to come down anyways, and she tried not to breathe too loud a sigh of relief, not for fear of offense, but for fear of inhaling whatever dust clouded her vision.

            _Small miracles_ , she supposed, hustling to the ladder in as quick a manner she could manage without sticking her foot through the visibly rotting floor, but halfway down to the ground, the rubber heel of her boot caught a flimsy rung and plummeted straight through it like a fist plunging into wet tissue paper.

            Anna yelped something obscene, followed by a second obscenity to cover for the first as she struggled to regain her footing on thin air, promptly losing her grip, and tumbling to the ground with a heavy _oof!_ Breath shot out of her lungs in a mist, and she lie on her back staring up at the rung that had betrayed her, dazed and seeing stars, arms spread wide like she was making an angel in the dirt.

            Something in her back _ached_ , but she had little time to dwell on it before she was _swarmed_.

            Hands pulled at her, a dozen of them, or so it felt, crowding about her, poking and prodding as they lifted her to sitting, and, eventually, standing. Rose was among them, her sharp brow pulled into a furrow of concern, hands on Anna’s face, squeezing so tightly she could see the puff of her cheeks beneath her eyes.

            “Are you alright?”

            “I—yes, I think so.” She felt dazed, but not entirely busted, at least, not beyond repair. A bit stiff, a lot _achy_ , but nothing broken, at least not recognizably so. Broken bones felt like knives, but Anna felt like everything had just locked into place, as though her entire body had decided to seize up upon impact.

            “Nothing broken?”

            “Well, nothing _feels_ broken.”

            “Are you _sure?_ ” A voice from the back of the crowd peeped up, the hands on her shoulders tightening, one on her back moving in oddly soothing circles, and just like that the words came flowing, a dozen voices speaking at once, all with good intention, but it was simply _too much_.

            “An internal injury might not even hurt, you know.”

            “You should sit down, sister, keep your weight off your feet.”

            “Should I get John?”

            “Oh, _yes,_ John will know what to do.”

            “Don’t you think we should send for Joseph?”

            “Oh, no, no, _no,_ I’m alright, really, I’m _fine_ —” Anna slowly began to sidle away, passing on as many thanks as her breath could give as she passed through bodies, swimming upstream on her journey to the door, and Rose followed quietly, clinging to her wrist with a nearly inhuman strength. “I’m just going to step outside for a moment, catch my breath.”

            Eyes studied her carefully, it felt like thousands of them, every Peggie in the room had turned to her, the full weight of their expectation upon her, and Anna felt both the compulsion to weep and scream just as strongly as she did the urge to _run away_.

            “We should wait for John, Anna. He’ll be back soon.”

            “I won’t be long.”

            Rose seemed resistant to the idea of Anna going off on her own, her hand tightening even more, if that was possible. Anna placed a hand over the older woman’s, giving it a ginger squeeze, trying to make her expression seem reassuring, but tears were prickling up at the corners of her eyes, the dull throbbing in her back now a roaring fire, the tightness in her chest very quickly unwinding.

            “I promise.”

            “I believe you.”

            And she let go.

            Anna ducked outside with all the speed and haste of an injured beast, attempting to walk off the ache like one would a stubbed toe, waddling around the edges of the barn, her hands pressed against her hips to stretch her spine. Stubborn tears leaked down her cheeks, dribbling off her chin as she paced, head tilted back, the veins in her neck scrabbling against her skin in an effort to escape.

            She wasn’t sure what hurt more; her pride, or her chest. The whistle of her breath as suddenly now very overwhelming, but also not enough.

            Behind a crate she crouched, her head hung low, crushing out her tears on the heels of her hands. Every breath shuddered through her lips, the clogged weight in her throat choking her for it, but she swallowed it down, pressed it back until she thought she could bear it no more, but even when her breath stifled, she endured it, coughing up phlegm into the mud.

            “ _Fuck_.” She hissed, seething at the _world_ , and she leaned her head back, gasping in the cool air, thankful now for the frost as it enveloped her, sinking deep into her lungs.

            She _wanted_ them to be cruel. She _wanted_ them to hate her. It was just easier that way, _simpler_ if they all played along. It was the same with him, with John. If he hated her, _loathed_ her for what she’d done she could live with it, but forgiveness? Was she deserving? It was easier to be beyond it all, to have surpassed all rights to human nature, and yet he seemed so keen to draw her back. His professions were old, wearing on her as gratingly as her ire must’ve begun to wear on him.

            Eyes closed, she sank for a moment, allowing herself to _drift_ beyond reason, until she forced them to open and raggedly rose to her feet. For a moment she hung at the crate, leaning upon it for reassurance, but when she looked at her hands, searching them for tremors, she found something _odd_.

            Upon the crate, between baskets and sacks, something small gleamed. It was tiny, silver, round and smooth, a _button_. Anna picked it up carefully, as though it was made from delicate spun sugar, tweezing it between her dirty fingers, studying it carefully, a rare and precious gem.

             “Hope County Cougars.” She read quietly, a grim smile perching itself upon her lips.

            She wanted to laugh, to gawk at its absurdity. Those stupid little buttons, but with it came Virgil, all that naivety, all that hope, that _faith._ Whitehorse, Tracey, even fucking _Burke_. Everything, _everyone_ —all of it bore rise to a burning heat in her chest, a sort of flush that filled her mouth with bile. She felt as sick as she did _loved_.

From a distance, she could hear her name, rising in as many octaves as it did desperation. And she steadied herself again as he grew closer, tucking the button into her pocket just as _John_ rounded the corner, attempting to hide the motion by twisting her jacket, complaining under her breath about the poor fit.

            “What happened?” He was upon her before she could take a breath, hands on her face, searching her eyes for something, _anything_. He always sook that in her, truths that her tongue wouldn’t tell, but he always seemed to come up empty, no matter how many times he tried. “Rose said you fell.”

            “A ladder rung gave out.”

            “Are you hurt?”

            “No.”

            “ _Are you hurt_?” He asked it a second time, his voice darker, brow sharper, as though he did not believe her, but she shook her head, removing herself from his grip, though he desperately seemed to want to keep his hands upon her, reaching out again. “Let’s get you home. We’ll get a doctor out to look at you tomorrow morning.”

            “I said I’m _fine_.”

            “Can your physical wellbeing be something we don’t argue about?”

            She opened her mouth, sucked in a sharp breath, and then let it fall shut. There was nothing to say to that, nothing that wouldn’t make her seem like an even bigger _fool_ than she’d already made herself out to be.  

            “C’mon. It was about time to leave anyways.”

            They rode home in silence, though John was far more fidgety than he’d ever been, his hands constantly moving across the dash, pushing buttons, twisting knobs, as though he couldn’t sit still, but Anna sat away from him, turned on her hip toward the window, trying—with all her might—to keep pressure on her shoulder and off of her back on the chance that something really _was_ wrong. In her pocket, she twisted the button, stroking it with her thumb in tiny concentric circle, soothing and small within her palm, a comforting weight.

            It’d been set out, put on display, as though someone had wanted her to see it. But that was _hope_ talking wasn’t it? That little voice she long thought she’d laid to rest bleeding through into her waking mind, the one that still imagined that they were still looking for her. That they were still watching her, waiting for the right moment to pull her out of the hole she’d dug herself into.

Regardless, it was a good memory, one she was _glad_ to have recovered.

            In the Ranch’s driveway, Anna struggled to unseat herself, the drop from the truck now too far for her weary legs. Although she’d expected John to taunt her, he did the opposite, propping the door open with his hip and offering her his hand. She feigned interest in the smooth collar of his jacket where her hands found purchase on his shoulders. Compared to Jacob, she felt John to be less sturdy, perhaps less trustworthy in the core of his build, but he held her well, open hands skating up her arms to support her at her elbows as she slipped out of the seat, and then releasing to find a steadier grip on her waist, clutching her tight as though she would plummet into the void without the press of his fingers.

            Quietly, _tiredly_ , they retired to their separate rooms. Anna showered, scrubbed herself clean of the days grime, scorched herself raw until her back felt numb, and wandered the Ranch an undignified mess. Food didn’t interest her, neither did the prospect of sleeping, so she shuffled about, moving from one chair to the next, searching for something that would offer her any type of comfort, but nothing helped, not even the plushness of John’s couch.

            In a haze, she staggered out onto the porch, wrapped up to her next in a quilt from the bed, and Anna sank into a bow beside the railing, arms outstretched, pulling her back flat and straight. It helped a little, the rolling throbbing subsiding to something dull for just a few minutes, before returning with vigor when she rose up.

            The door croaked open behind her, the flicker of the porch light evidently earning her some attention, but John didn’t need to speak for her to recognize his presence. Not anymore. She’d spent enough time in his shadow to know how it felt, how heavy his eyes were when they lingered upon her.

            Anna folded her arms on the railing and stared toward the edge of the property, where the floodlights dimmed out, giving in to natural dark of Hope County, the rise of her shoulders pitched and unusual, almost too sharp to be natural.

            “Thinking about running?” He asked softly, the edge of his voice joking, _jesting_.

            “How far do you think I’d get?”

            He hummed something softly as he settled in beside her, gripping the railing and bowing his back, stretching his spine like a lazy cat as he pondered her question, his shoulders hunched up beside his ears. It still struck her as odd to see him so…at _ease_ , the slickness of his hair undone, odd strands fluffed away from his face at the behest of his hands.

            “If you were clever,” he began with a bit of a yawn, “which you _are_ , I think you’d make it all the way to Missoula before anyone noticed you’d gone missing.”

            Anna frowned at that, an unheeded reaction that wasn’t lost by John, even in the dim dark. The weight of his gaze fell upon her with comfortable ease, keen eyes searching for a chip in her walls to exploit, the smallest of tears in her being that he could wriggle beneath.

            “Then why haven’t I?”

            “Because you’re too _stubborn_.” He rasped, the husk in his voice new and unbidden, grating against her brain with a sort of _heat_ that made her heart drop out through the bottoms of her feet. She nearly expected him to leave it at that, to drop it then, but he continued quietly, the softness of his voice no louder than the puffing of snow against the ground. “And to leave now would be to abandon all that you _love_. What good would that do?”

            Anna swallowed stiffly, opening her mouth to reply, but she found the words to be thick, sticky on her tongue, but it was not the sweetness of honey that flooded her mouth, but rather the bitter twang of want. “I would come back for them, I promised—”

            “ _Ah_ ,” he clucked his tongue, “you think I’m talking about your _former_ allies.”

            She wanted to ask him who else he had in mind, but the realization hit her in the same way that she supposed a brick would’ve hit her face. He meant _them_ , the Project, the _Seeds_. If he imagined that she _loved_ them, then he had another thing coming, but she found it difficult to articulate an argument for the accusation. Why hadn’t she left? The opportunity had risen plenty of times, plenty of moments to slip away into the wilds and back into the welcoming arms she worried were no longer waiting for her, and yet she’d never taken that chance.

            “If the circumstances were different, if we had come for you in the beginning, do you think your _friends_ would have wasted their breath and risked their _necks_ as you have for them?” Suddenly, the porch felt very small, the wideness of the world impossibly shallow. His eyes were no longer upon her, instead they watched the sky, but the _press_ of his attention was still upon her. “Had they been given the chance to flee as you have, do you think they’d stay for you?”

            “Yes.”

            “ _Liar._ ” John seethed. “They would’ve abandoned you.”

            It was in her blood to be defensive, to strike against him for what he’d said, and though the snarl on her lips was vicious, the words that left her were sickly and half-hearted. “You have no way of knowing that.”

            “I don’t have to know,” something about his touch set her skin alight, prickling both in fear and _rage_ , the stroke of his knuckle along her jawline painfully undoing, “you have a _very_ expressive face.” He’d leaned closer then, as though to punctuate his victory. His other hand felt heavy on her shoulder, weighed down with all the tenderness of his words, that sickly sweetness, but the malice she’d hoped to see in his eyes was gone, replaced only with a weary sort of softness. “We have always _loved_ you, Anna.”

            “Funny, I don’t remember feeling _loved_ every time a fucking Peg—” there it was again, the _burn_ in her, the bite, every inch of her rearing for a fight, but it didn’t feel the same anymore. It was disingenuous, _false_ , a façade made up of conjecture and lies.

            John’s eyebrows shot up, lips twitched into a lopsided grin, and she clamped her mouth shut, swallowing the words, the _hatred_ that had boiled up within her, bubbling acid in her gut. How _righteous_ he must’ve felt, how _pious_ when he undertook her failures and her sins, and yet all he had ever done was cause her _pain_. He could scream it at her, shriek it until his throat grew raw and wretched, and she would never believe it.

            And yet, why did it feel different when she considered Jacob? Had he not hurt her? Something small in her confirmed that, howled its approval at the whispering thought, but it had been for her own good, hadn’t it? Jacob had made her strong, peeled back her weakness for all the world to see, and then buried it within her where it would never again see the sun. But why were those forgivable transgressions? Why did his pain feel like love, and John’s like _sickness_?    

            “Go on.” He urged her, low enough now that she could see every fleck of gold within his eyes, hidden treasures within tumultuous depths. “ _Say it_.”

            “You _people_ don’t love me.”

            “We’re the only people that love you. You felt it today, didn’t you? In a room full of people that should want nothing more than to kill you, not one of them seemed to want to kick you while you were down, despite how _easy_ it would’ve been.”

            The thought made her both nauseous and tearful, and she swallowed hard to keep them back, to crush down that unbidden wave of uncertainty, but the rising _lump_ in her throat threatened to choke her if she did, and so she looked away, eyes turned skyward as though that would keep them at bay any more so than her panicked breathing, straightening up to standing, but that only served to bring her closer to him.

            “All we’ve ever wanted is what’s best for you.” So little space remained between them that Anna could almost feel the pounding of his heart against her shoulder, the awkward juxtaposition of him against her side a bracing comfort as the strength of her knees seemed to fail her. “People like us—”

            “ _Us_.” She hissed, the roll of her tongue almost comical as she shook her head.

            “The unwanted,” he pressed, “abandoned by those meant to _protect_ us,” a break in his words caught her off guard, a wet huff of breath beside her ear far more soothing than she was willing to admit. She had a feeling they weren’t talking about the Project anymore. “When Joseph came to me, I didn’t believe that I was worthy either, and there are moments now when those old fears creep back in; that I am _wrong_ , laden with _sin._ ” He touched his chest almost subconsciously, and though it was not visible to her, she knew where his touch wandered, those ragged marks bright as day in her mind. “ _We_ don’t have to be alone, whatever it is that you suffer—"

            “ _Stop_.” It was the only word she could think to say, but the tears had come, rolling down her cheeks in glittering golden light, staining her throat with their horrid wetness. It did not feel good to cry, it felt _weak_ , foolish, doubly so in his presence, and the admission only seemed to spur him on.

            “There is no shame in the garden.” A hand was on her neck, fingers smoothing over bruises, fitting them almost perfectly as John pulled her toward him. He asked no permission, but Anna found that she didn’t have the will to keep him away. It mattered not that he was _John Seed_ , only that he was a shoulder, willing and waiting as she burrowed within him, the press of his chest steady against her ear. Squirming hands found hold along his back, threading along his spine, and they curled into the thick wool of his sweater as she breathed against his heart, the rhythmic _thudding_ the sweetest of lullabies, ruptured only by her wheezing hiccups.

            He held her kindly, _tightly_ , one hand upon her back, the other in her hair, keeping her pinned to him, the press of his chin sharp against her crown, the warm puffing of his breath a grounding sort of certainty in the cage his arms formed. For a long moment he said nothing, struck into silence by her choking, the gasping whines she made into the darkness. It didn’t matter anymore, not her _pride_ , the will to fight him drowned out by the thrum of his breath, steady and calm, and she paced herself against it, quietly subsiding into painfully dry weeping.

            Warmth blossomed on her forehead, the heat of his lips upon her, pressing lightly against her hairline, the scratch of his beard tickling her nose as he shifted them, but as she prepared for his inevitable withdrawal, he held her closer, squeezed her tighter.

             “You are loved.”

            And, for once, she believed him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John craves affection. He's also got a big dick, but that's beside the point. 
> 
> Smut ahead, sinners. Writing this was a fever dream, but I hope you enjoy this nearly 8,000 word chapter. Next time we'll be bringing Jacob back into the fold (dun dun dunnnn), Staci will be bringing in some shit and a special character that I'm incredibly excited to write is going to fuck everything up. 
> 
> I fly out to see my parents next week for the holidays, but I'm going to try and bring my laptop with me so I can keep writing while I'm out of town. If not, consider this a sexy Christmas present <3

            John seemed to enjoy keeping her relegated to bed. “ _Doctor’s orders_ ” he’d cite with the faintest flash of a toothy smile, patting her knee before leaving her in the company of her mind for hours at a time. He came and went often. Checking up on her whenever time would allow it, or so she surmised. Sometimes he'd come to her with frost still clumped in his beard, and others he’d refuse to leave the Ranch, biding his time at her bedside, reading to her softly from the Book of Joseph.

            _Insightful_ felt a good word for it, the winding tales Joseph had spun wrought with a solemness that made her own heart hurt, but John didn't seem too distraught by what she could only describe as a conscious recollection of past abuse. She tried not seem too enraptured by his words, tried to whittle away the hours he read with mindless distractions. It _stung_ to think of them, the Seeds, as anything other than middle aged and violent, but they'd been young once. Vulnerable,  _trusting_ , at the mercy of a world that kept them waiting on their knees for a reprieve that would never come. She knew that feeling, as though the rug was always slipping away from beneath her feet, all sense of stability and reason tossed to the wind. 

            She wanted to apologize to him, but held it in. Swallowed it back, even when his lips were at her forehead, the wetness of a kiss upon her brow before he'd leave her to wallow in the silence she'd made for herself. John understood. More so than the others, he  _knew_. The inner workings of her being no longer seemed a mystery to him, but he did not exploit them, instead he tied them to his own. They were the same in their drownings, the pity with which they regarded themselves. How weak they were, how frail, but John was with purpose. A self-made doctrine he'd driven through his heart, but she was still searching, still vying for belonging. His words were reassuring, but somewhere in her heart she still felt  _unsettled_. 

            The rug was sliding away again, threatening to leave her on her ass before she even realized what had happened. How fast before she was no longer useful to them? How quick before Joseph determined her worth to be nothing? And when had her value fallen to him, to them, the  _Seeds_?

            Sometimes he came with gossip. Mostly it was nothing. John, she figured, was inclined to keep their conversation light. Anything beyond a set script of words could prove troublesome, especially when they’d only just moved beyond their constant arguing. He spoke carefully around her, pressed where he could, but rarely deviated from a set circle of topics. The weather. Eden’s Gate. The word of the Father. The progress of the Project. All things good and wholesome. 

            About a week she spent in bed, watching the rise and fall of the sun from what little light wormed through her window, it’s golden streak dull and dim against the wall. Storms rolled through nightly, the whipping wind her constant companion, almost as constant as John’s interruptions. He seemed to enjoy occupying the space beside her, his hand folded over hers in quiet prayer. 

            She pretended not to know the words.

            Rose came to see her, a _kind_ gesture all things considered, and taught her all the worlds to _Oh, John_ , though Anna would never dare to utter them aloud, at least not in the presence of John. She could only handle so much of John’s ego, and it didn’t need much help getting any bigger than it already was.

            Unsurprisingly, although still disappointingly, Jacob did not come. In some small way she had hoped he would, but hope seemed fleeting in the present. He would come if she asked, of that she was certain, but she didn’t feel the need to bother him with such pettiness. Jacob had more than enough on his plate, word of an increased Whitetail campaign had trickled down from the mountains. Eli, it seemed, was on the move again, burning out a trench into the wilds. It was a sickening thing to think about, but with little else to occupy her mind, it was difficult not to dwell.

            On one hand, she prayed for his safety, his _wellbeing_ as it were, but on the other she could not help but wish for Jacob to put an end to it all. It was a gut feeling, but she was inclined to believe that he’d already planned for the end, what would likely be a bloody culmination to all the fighting. But perhaps that was what he was trying to avoid by drawing it out, by allowing the fighting to linger. Enough blood had been spilt in the Whitetails.

            She wanted to see him again. Bury herself within him, allow him to lead her, _guide_ her, provide her with purpose and meaning. But while John admittedly left her feeling adrift, it was a sensation she was quickly becoming accustomed to. It struck her as strange how different they were, one brother too distant for her liking, and the other far too close. The third was a mystery, coming and going, ever present, but never lingering. He existed at the edges of waking mind. A presence she weakly acknowledged, but was rarely transfixed by. 

            “Anna,” a sharp knock on the door drew her away from her thoughts, eyes fixed on the doorknob, waiting for the telltale twist, but it never came. John’d grown a habit of knocking while entering rather than before. “Are you decent?"

            “Yes? What, do you think— _oh_.”

            He wasn’t alone. John had brought company, and though the Father did not seem _perturbed_ by her crassness, there was no hint of a smile upon his lips either. If anything, he seemed _concerned_ , his brow wrinkled with unrest, lips pulled into a tight, thin line. He waved a dismissive hand when Anna made to sit up a bit straighter, breezing past the chair to sit directly beside her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He glowed in the sunlight, his skin kissed golden even in the weariness of winter. 

            “You must forgive my lateness, Anna,” he began softly, the brush of his fingers forcing hers to unclasp, her palms opening to him, welcoming his touch if only as a subconscious reflex. Of the three, he encouraged touch the most, reveled in it, even. It seemed second nature by now. “But winter breeds sickness, and so I’ve been needed elsewhere.”

            “You tend to the sickly?”

            “When I can.” He offered her a smile, but Anna was vaguely aware of John’s gaze. It lingered on her face, watched her as closely as she watched him, his blurry figure pacing over his brothers shoulder. “I trust that my brother has offered you every comfort you could wish for. An injured back is no small matter.”

            “John has been more than accommodating.”

            “Then I am glad.”

            John let out a breath, as though he had been holding it for hours, sucking in wind as he turned again, continuing his pacing along the backside of the room, the scuff of his boots growing louder against the wood with every step.

            “How are you feeling?” Joseph turned her attention back to him, his fingers beneath her chin. Not grasping, perhaps, as Jacob would do, but _guiding_. He didn’t need to force her to look at him, only suggest it. “Better, I hope.”

            “Not nearly as bad as I did.” She answered with the briefest of smiles. Joseph’s questions always felt loaded, as though he was waiting on the trigger for a sermon. “A bit stiff, but that could be from lying down for so long. I haven’t moved much since—well, John’s been insistent that I stay in bed.”

            “Doctor’s orders.” John added lightly, earning a passing glance from Joseph. 

            “I see.” He said, and then: “sit up.” The curl of his fingers suggested that it was a request, but there was no room to make a bargain with him, not when his hand was already upon her back, pressed gently between her shoulders. Anna straightened the best she could, the pressure of his hands only guiding her about halfway to sitting before John intercepted, his fingers wrapping around her wrists so tightly it felt to her as though he was trying to cut off her blood flow. 

            Joseph was behind her now, the press of his knee firm against her lower back, and John sat across from her. Patient eyes fixed upon hers, the edges of worry bleeding into passive blue as Joseph studied her from behind in solemn silence, the width of his shadow casting John into darkness. Only his hair was alight, darker than soot, gleaming, in some places, with previously unnoticed silver.

            Goosebumps erupted on her arms when Joseph lifted her shirt, exposing toasty skin to the cool air that had filled the Ranch, but he hushed her before she could protest, revealing the whole of her weakest part to the world, pressing forward with dogged determination, even as she squirmed. Whatever comfort she had found in his hands was now gone, replaced with a growing discomfort, a twist in her gut that made her choke on her heart, lodged somewhere deep in her throat.

            “Where do you hurt, Anna?” He asked, and she could feel his touch, curious and unbidden, exploring the flat expanse of her back, his palms smoothing upwards gently, fingers pressing lightly in his search for a reaction. Joseph did not pause to pay her scars special attention, but his fingers acknowledged them gently, swept over their jagged curves in search of something _more_.

            “Lower,” she said, “toward my hips.”

            “Here?”

            She stifled a grunt when he pressed harder, fingers curled into her waist, his thumbs struck deep into her lower back, and John squeezed her hands, the passiveness of his expression giving way to something much  _darker_ she nodded her head, attempt to inch away over the thick bundling of sheets, but Joseph held her tight.

            “I see.” An echo repeated in heavy tongues. “Could you bring me my coat, John?” As hesitant as he seemed, John eventually relinquished her hands and left the room, but Joseph did not retreat from her. His fingers remained, scouring her back for other weaknesses, other frailties to exploit.

            “Joseph—”

            “So many _scars_ , Anna. Some still bleed." His thumb brushed something fresh, launching a clattering shudder down her spine. "I know that John can be— _intense_.” He spoke over her warbling dismissal, shushing her without doing so at all. “I had hoped that your presence would help to _temper_ him somewhat.”

            “Has it?”

            “I was hoping that you would tell me.”

            “I—” _had she?_ Was John much different from the John she had first met? No. Not by much. He still seemed keen to pop at a moment’s notice, but perhaps _she_ was overreaching. There were moments of brevity with him, tiny instances of grace. He wasn’t born of cruelty, but she could only speak on her behalf. How he treated her was still so different, and she knew so little of his interactions with others he kept her so cut off from the rest of Hope County. He no longer needed to force her because she’d _allowed_ his presence beyond her walls, or rather he’d forced himself there. “He is kind to _me_.”

            “And to others?”

            “I can't be sure. I very rarely see him with anyone else.”

            Joseph hummed something behind her, his tone a low drawl, thicker than honey. It came through in him, sometimes, more so in John, that richness of tone, a distinctly southern twinge to his words: “he covets you. One sin misplaced for another. John has a very _addictive_ personality, he’s drawn to things that make him feel _bright_.” His hands were resting on her shoulders, the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck. “Perhaps you are one of those things.”

            “Forgive me, Joseph,” _Father_ , “but is that so terrible?”

            “Not entirely, but do take care not to feed his infatuations. His _sin_ is empowered by his distractions, just as yours is by your stubbornness. He wraps himself in all those bright things to make the world a little less dark, but in doing so he removes himself from us; his _family_.”

            “What would you have me do?”

            She had turned to him in a rather uncomfortable position, but the strain she could bear to look upon his face, his features placid as ever, blue eyes boring through hers, searing her from the inside out. It was difficult not to be struck by how beautiful he could be, every feature relaxed and gentle, the angular thinness that he carried subdued by the very softness of his being. 

            “ _Nothing_.”

            Before she could question him, however, John returned, all huff and puff, cheeks flushed to rosy red. She wondered briefly if he’d heard anything they’d said, but the stuttering rise of his chest seemed to suggest that he was simply out of breath.

            “Bliss has a number of properties.”

            Even just the word set every little hair on the back of her neck on end. Holland Valley had seen her clear of Bliss, but the tang of it she still remembered, and the thought made her mouth water uncomfortably, even as her palms went clammy. John sat before her again, _closer_ this time, seeking her hands, but they’d curled into fists in her lap, her entire frame clenched as though preparing for a fight.

            “But when diluted, it proves to be quite soothing.” Joseph was rummaging in his coat pockets, digging for something, but Anna couldn’t see, even if she’d wanted to, she could not turn. John was holding her face, limiting her vision to him.

            “I’ll survive without it.” It was a weak suggestion, grit out between her teeth like iron, but Joseph either didn’t hear her, or pretended not to.

            She could _smell_ it. Sweeter than molasses, a thickly _pungent_ aroma. Like honeysuckles, but bitter too, as though something in it had gone off, as though it was _rotten_ , and she wriggled with a bit more fervency, but found her movement impeded, the hands upon her now seemed doubled in weight.

            “It will _help_.” Joseph soothed, his hands returning to her back, something _slick_ and warm between his fingers, and she arched at his touch, curling away into herself, but between the two of them there was nowhere to go.

            “ _John_ ,” turning to him for help was a lost cause, his hands on her cheeks, fingers tight in her hair.

            “Trust the Father, Anna. It will help.” His voice was reassuring, but his expression was not, riddled with fractured concern, or perhaps she was projecting, her grasp now painfully weak on his forearms.

            Bliss, as far as she was concerned, was powerful in all it’s forms. Just a whiff of it made her feel woozy. Even taking a dip in the Henbane had left her knees wobbly for a few minutes afterwards, her skull stuffed with cotton, a foam of green bubbling up between her teeth. _This_ was just as bad, and all coherent thought sloughed out of her ears as quickly as Joseph moved away, guiding her back against the pillows with a tender sort of reverence, his face so close to hers she could see every line and every freckle surrounding his eyes.

            “Better?” If it was meant as a question, Joseph did not wait for her to answer. “You’ll feel right as rain when you wake. I promise.” He gathered her hands on her stomach, folding them between his own, squeezing them tight as he smiled, before turning to John, speaking in a voice that seemed too dull and distant for her to care.

            The Bliss was like _floating_ , weightless, aimless, but sickeningly warm. She felt surrounded by them, coddled, despite their distance. Joseph sat beside her, taking up John’s position at her side, reading quietly from the Book of Joseph, his hand linked with hers as she stared blankly at the ceiling, the faintest hint of dismay upon her lips. It might've been a beautiful sight for a distant onlooker. Anyone peering in through her window might've seen something heartbreaking, but Anna felt like she was sinking, slowly moving through the mattress to the earth. Only John kept her grounded, his broad hand on her thigh, his hips settled somewhere tightly beside her knees, holding firmly, keeping her present. But even he could not keep her thoughts from spilling out her ears, drawing her away to a distant field, the sway of moonflowers rustling in the breeze. 

            She could’ve stayed there forever, tucked away in the tall grass, recumbent in a silent, wistful paradise, the kiss of butterfly’s gentle against her tired skin. The shell of her seemed to fall away, opening up to the warmth of the world. It felt like _dying_ , but in the most beautiful way.

            But when she woke, they were gone, and she was alone in dim light of the evening. There hadn’t been a sunset in Hope County in weeks. The sun simply descended, the constant cloud cover demanding a weary slide into night. No more brilliant reds and oranges, no ochre beauty, just various shades of gray bleeding together over a white horizon.

            Anna sat as quickly as her body would allow, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, holding there for a moment as all the blood in her head redistributed to the rest of her body. Standing didn’t come easily, nor speedily, but she managed the best she could, using the end table and the wall to steady her stance.

            The world beyond her window was a hazy thick sheet of white, her eyes wide as saucers as she watched the wriggling drift of snowflakes. They didn’t _fall_ but rather see-sawed, cutting back and forth through the air with vicious speed, tumbling to the earth with the weight of bricks, but the flakes were fat, and by the way they _clumped_ upon the ground, probably _wet_. It wasn’t a fluffy, Hallmark snow, but a claustrophobic weight, an impassable blanket wrapped around them with the strength of steel.

            In silence she shuffled to the door, thick socks muffling her footsteps as she walked down the hallway, headed for the kitchen. The dimness of the hall made it difficult to see, but she made do at the beckoning of firelight. She passed his shadow in the living room. For a moment she thought him to be reading, his feet propped up on the coffee table, fingers clutching a book in his lap, but it was turned down, the spine crinkled and well-worn, his chin tucked into his chest, mouth open in soft sighs.

            How the Baptist could ever look _peaceful_ was beyond her, and yet there he lay, gentle as silk, his features flat, shoulders unburdened.

            He looked _kind_ , almost.

            Without really meaning to, Anna leaned toward him, elbows dug into the back of the couch as she peered at his resting face. Up close she was surprised to find John so— _freckled_. His skin bloomed with them, from the tips of his ears to the sharp pull of his nose. They sat in his dimples, nestled into the crooks of his temples, the shadowy hook of his throat, and she wondered for a moment where else they lie, perhaps in the curve of his spine, the low stretch of his stomach. She could see them on his hands, resting gently on the spine of his book, his knuckles painfully raw, scarred over from years of—

            “Anna?” He stirred somewhat slowly, his eyes cracking open in bleary slits before fixing on her. “Is something wrong?”

            “No.” She withdrew, a slight flush crawling up her neck as he eyed her curiously, his head turned like a dog hard of hearing, neck craned as he tried to catch her eye over the back of the couch.

            “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

            “ _Yes_.”

            His eyes narrowed, petulant disbelief dug deep into the corners of his mouth.

            “How are you feeling?”

            “Alright.” It was more question than answer, but John seemed to accept it, his arm now strung over the back of the couch, his eyes glued to her as she meandered through the living room. She felt _fine_ , a little woozy, maybe, but _fine_. “Joseph left?”

            “He stayed with you until you fell asleep.”

            Anna hummed something light in response, sinking into an armchair, and still, John watched her, his gaze as thick as it was dark. He seemed in awe of her, wordless, _speechless_ , or perhaps he was still groggy, his lips parted with words that were still processing somewhere between his tongue and brain.

            They sat in silence for a long time, Anna distracted by the crackling of the fire, twisting the wooden wolf around her fingers, weaving the leather cord between her knuckles until it hurt, John entertained by the mindlessness of his reading. It was a comfortable repose, a silence enjoyed by two, but like all things with the Seeds it could not last.

            “Joseph asked me about you.”

            John inhaled sharply, bright eyes finding hers over the top of his book. It was pressed into his stomach now, his feet crossed on the coffee table. It was almost laughable, how domestic they seemed.

            “Oh?” He questioned, looking away to continue his reading, or, at least, pretending to.

            “He wanted to know if I thought you were kind.”

            “Do you?”

            “Sometimes.” She shrugged. “You’ve grown on me.”

            “Like a fungus?”

            “More like a vine.” She offered, and he grimaced, the book now flattened against him, his attention wholly on her. “He seems to think that you covet me.”

            “As if Jacob did not do the same.” A hint of a snarl rose in him, squashed down by a sigh. “What do you think, Anna? Am I covetous of you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then we are both sinners.” He said. “Does that please you?”

            “No.”

            “Does anything please you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Care to explicate?”

            She’d peaked his interest now, earned his undivided attention, but she felt inadequate in his gaze, somewhat lesser than she had before.

            “It used to be so many things, but now—I imagine most of them would be considered a _sin_.”

            “Ah.” He grimaced. “We all have our vices, Anna, but not every joy is a sin in the garden.”

            “Do you ever miss it?” She asked, and he cocked an eyebrow, waiting for more. “Life outside of Eden’s Gate, I mean.”

            A flicker passed over his face, something dark and uncertain, his expression folding inwards, but he shook his head all the same, the grimace passing as he looked to her. “No, not at all. Who I was then—it wasn’t _sustainable_. I was so empty, and all those things I tried to use to fill the void were just hopeless attempts to make myself feel _whole._ ”

            He wanted to say more, his mouth open to press for her thoughts, to dig for more information, but he seemed to think better of it, casting the book aside as he rose to his feet, staggering over to her in a heap of swaying limbs.

            “Y’know, bliss oil can take away the pain for a little while, but it isn’t permanent. We should get you back to bed before you start to ache again. I don’t want to have to carry you up the stairs.”

            “Joseph said I’d feel right as rain.”

            “Maybe you will, but I’d rather not chance it.”

            His hands were outstretched to her, palms open and inviting, and something in her chest ached at the sight. Not like she had ached for Jacob. That had been— _different_ , that had been power, it had been strength, but John offered her something _softer_. A kinder sort of something, kinship, familiarity. A soul with which she felt— _comforted._ They were too alike. Volatile, too eager to bite back even when the situation didn’t call for it. Stubborn, likely beyond all reason, but too _pliable_ for their own good. Willing to bend to get the upper hand, even if it came at a cost too steep to justify.

            “Anna—”

            “We’re too alike, John, aren’t we?” She mused, and his hands fell away, his expression darkening somewhat. “You’ve said it before, back _then_ , in the bunker, and you were right. But you Seeds are always right, aren’t you? You revel in it.”

            “You make us sound so prideful.” He was crouched now, level with her face, a wetness in his eyes that she had never seen before. In the glow of the fireplace, they almost looked like lovers, bowed toward one another, his hand on her knee, hers in his sweater, tangled in his collar, seeking a closeness that could not exist. “Come on,” he grit out, rising to his feet, “back to bed.”

            But he didn’t rise, and neither did she.

            The distance between them fell as easily as it had risen, his hands clutching her close, the press of his lips against hers soft but insistent. Kissing him was something sweet, it was _gentle_ , softer than she’d imagined it would be, but it lasted only a moment, his withdrawal quick and succinct, yet the feel of him remained, the brush of his lips still warm against her own. He didn't move away entirely, his fingers bracketing her throat, staring at her in silent grace, as though she was something delicate to be cradled within his hands. When she arched up toward him, desperately seeking his warmth a second time, he withheld, offering her only the slightest of contact, keeping her needy as his fingers wove through her hair, the heat of his breath almost unbearable against her mouth. And when he allowed her affection it was with a thread of aggression, his teeth clacking against hers as he sook to close the gap between them with an ever-growing voracity. It was as though he was a drowning man, and she the only source of oxygen he had left, and when they broke apart it left her gasping.

            His cheeks were flushed, burnt red in the firelight, his lips glistening, and though he opened his mouth to speak, parsing out words that failed on his tongue, she did not care. She kissed him again, harder this time, her hands in his hair, sitting, as it were, on the very edge of her seat, and he rose with her, her arms wrapped around his shoulders to keep herself steady.

            John kissed with fire, biting and gnashing at the bit as she tightened her grip on his shoulders, but there was hesitation in him too. A reserved quality as he touched her, his palms barely skimming her back, even as she pressed forward into him, the impression of his belt buckle squaring up firmly against her stomach.

            “Anna,” he was turning her, his hands on her hips, pushing her down, guiding her backwards, and let him lead her, sinking onto the couch in a heap of tangled limps and knotted hair, staring up at him just as he looked down at her, his expression one of mottled confusion and thrumming excitement, his eyes much _brighter_ than she had ever seen them before. John knelt above her, a knee wedged firmly between her thighs and she wove her legs between his, peppering his face with kisses as he worked toward her neck, his teeth grazing her throat with growing insistence before he bit down upon the tender flesh, seeking a rise in her she gladly gave.

            John encouraged her touch, goaded her on with tiny praises and silent affirmations, the steady pounding of his heart rattling her own within her chest. His hands were everywhere, ghosting over her flesh, bringing rise to goosebumps on every corner of her body, and the nerves in her belly began to tighten, the heat between her thighs pooling to dangerous depths as his knee rose higher, pressing against her just softly enough for her to grind her hips along his thigh.

            That brought something out in him, a strangled sort of whine she swallowed up with a kiss, his fingers now tight in her hips, gripping at her with impatient abandon. His kisses grew insistent, the cant of his head forcing her to open from him, teeth grazing her swollen lips, and she  _encouraged_  his wrath, begged it even, his name a whispered prayer between their lips. 

            Fingers ran over her chest, tracing the outlines of her breasts, skimming the hardening peaks of her nipples, barely hidden by the thickness of her sweater, and John smiled into their kiss, his beard rubbing her raw as she clung to him,her bony fingers in his hair, clutched tight into fists. 

            “ _John_ ,” she clutched at his arm, more out of shock than anything, when his fingers passed beneath her waistband without warning, smoothing downwards slowly and then curling upwards, pressing her apart to stroke against her clit. Anna tried not to seem too _needy_ , even as her hips pressed forward, snapping upwards toward the calloused pad of his finger, her head lolling backwards as she cried out for _him_ , the curve of her throat an open invitation to John’s lips, trailing a line of wet, open kisses along her pounding pulse.

            “If it’s too much—” he began, a genuine note of sincerity in his voice, but she silenced him with her hands, raking through his beard, drawing over his mouth, the wetness of his lips warm against her clammy palms. 

            “Don’t stop.”

            It was so _easy_ to let him lead her, her hips arched upwards, seeking to fulfill a need, scratch an itch, _relieve_ a pressure, but John was keen to deny, his touch featherlight. He indulged her petty whims, breathed in her moans when she rose against him, kissing him as deeply as he would allow, a hand on his neck, fingers curled into his hair, the other between them, pressed against his stomach. It rose with his deepening breaths, passing between them as though they shared it, the sound of it sharp and whistling between their teeth, and he encouraged her exploration, the wriggle of her fingers downward, passing gently over the ridge and rise of his belt buckle. Only the tips of her fingers could squeeze between the buckle and his flesh, itching downwards towards a burning heat.

            “ _Dangerous_ ,” he seethed, “don’t tease, Anna.”

            “Shouldn’t I be stopping you?” She crooned in retort, nails in his scalp as she swallowed a moan, head thumping against the couch as he pressed a little harder, circling her clit with a precision that denied the chasteness of the Project. “Isn’t this— _ah—_ a sin?”

            “ _Oh_ , most definitely.” He paused only then, using his free hand to corral her gaze, a thumb on her cheek, his fingers tight in the baby hairs at the back of her neck. “But _sin_ is abated by love. We _belong_ like this. It is _right_.”

            She wanted to tease him, question whether or not Joseph would feel the same way, but something in his _eye_ , something as pleading as it was wanting, advised her otherwise. He wanted her to agree. Needed it. Begged it from her in such perfect silence, and she _gave_ , her lips on his cheek, chin in his shoulder, a hand on his back to steady herself as she brushed her fingers against his length, palming him through his jeans, earning a shuddering moan from John.

            His fingers returned to work, spreading her with ease, sinking into her heat with a rapturous sort of patience and she drove her teeth into his neck, biting down to quell the shrillness of every noise he threatened to draw from her, the heel of his hand now firm against her, ghosting over her clit as his fingers withdrew and reentered, crooking upwards, fucking her slowly.

            Anna panted beneath him, hips rocking into his hand, the wetness between her trembling thighs almost embarrassing, but John didn’t seem to care as he ground his cock into her open palm, his mouth open in a silent prayer.

            Tension rose within her, a tightness in her chest that traveled to her belly until she was clinging to him with a panicked sort of fervor, crying into his neck for the thrill of it, the trembling ache between her thighs, and then he _stopped._ his fingers withdrew, trailing wetness to her hand as they closed around her wrist, tugging her upwards. She didn’t have to ask where they were going when he lifted her off of the couch, leading her through the living room and up the stairs. The couch, evidently, was not good enough for John Seed. No, if he was going to fuck her, then he was going to do it properly, but she could not complain for such luxuries, despite the throb within her, the slickness on her thighs as she moved. They walked in silence, not speaking, barely touching but for where they were connected by hand, but instead of her room, John veered right, leading her away from the comfort of her own space.

            She’d never seen his room before, his _personal_ space, but John did not indulge her curiosity, if her attention was not on him, then it was misplaced, his fingers skirting up her throat, palms on either side of her face, turning her back to him. _Fire_ burned in his eyes, the inky depths of his pupils blown so wide that they seemed all-consuming, just the barest hint of blue left beyond them. He kissed her with impossible sweetness, holding her in place, keeping her pinned to him, and she bloomed within his hands, her mouth open, welcoming the scrape of his teeth, the warm press of his tongue.

            Hands untucked his shirt, her steady fingers working away at the buttons, exposing miles of ink. Only then did John not seem to mind her curiosity, the press of her fingers as they traced the scale emblazoned over his stomach, the symbol of Eden’s Gate on his ribs, hands pressed in prayer, the wing of an angel curled around his shoulder. She tried her best to commit them to memory, to burn their lines into her subconscious. In the dim lighting she couldn’t see them all, but there was _something_ else she noticed, the burgeoning tips of letters upon his hip, half hidden by his pants;  _lust._

            Anna bartered a kiss from him, used it as a distraction as she undid his belt, the stroke of his hands down her back soft and subdued, pulling her close as he busied himself with the twisted hem of her sweater. He groaned his approval when she touched him, her fingers curled around his cock, stroking gently, _experimentally_ , his hips rising to meet her in uneven strokes, a quickly failing exercise in self-control. He wanted  _more_ , hissed it to her, his lips on the shell of her ear, his tongue in places she'd never been touched before. 

            It made her stomach twist, the heat in her belly drawing deeper with every broken moan and whine. He groped at her, his hands squeezing every inch of flesh he could fit within his hands, the strain of his throat giving rise to an even deeper flush. 

            He didn’t have to push her hand away, he merely pushed _her_ instead, guiding her onto the bed with all the care of a long time lover, his hands cradling her every bone as she dropped into plush quilts and comforters. Fingers were in her sweatpants, pulling down before she could protest, stripping her bare, and then his hands were elsewhere, moving over her stomach, pulling her sweater up, over her shoulders, and then— _pausing_ , fingers wrapped tight around her biceps, her vision obscured by the thick fabric pulled loosely over her eyes. He'd blinded her and then left her bare, every tiny little hair on her body rising to attention in the cool air. 

“John,” she began, wriggling her fingers, attempting to pull the rest of the sweater off, at least over her eyes as her knees snapped shut, but he hushed her with a kiss, the itchy feel of his beard all that preceded the warmth of his lips.

            “Trust me.”

            _Easier said than done_.

            A moment passed in which nothing occurred. The feel of cool air on her exposed skin both thrilling and alarming all at once, a serviceable gut punch as she poured every ounce of her sanity into her remaining senses, attempting to listen for him, but just as she’d feared he was gone, his mouth was on her throat, teeth in her flesh, sucking goosebump riddled skin to a bruise, and she yelped in surprise, her hips shooting upwards, but he held her down, the sheer weight of him now crushing rather than comforting.

            And then he moved downward, his hands on her ribs, clutching at her carefully, his breath warm against her skin, but _searingly_ hot when his mouth passed over her right nipple (or was it her left?), pausing to embellish it with a kiss. He was so much _warmer_ than she remembered, the press of his skin against hers almost stifling, but when his tongue darted out, circling her nipple before his mouth descended upon it, she nearly _wept_ for it.

            His teeth grazed her gently, the flick of his tongue made only more maddening by the fact that she could not touch him, her back aching as she rose into a painful arch, attempting to close the distance between them, to earn some sort of _relief_ , but he kept her in place with an unbearable sort of ease.

            “So _eager_ ,” he breathed into her skin, kissing a line over her chest, attending to her neglected breast with the same diligent care, “so _beautiful_.”

            “John—”

            He touched her mouth, the pass of his calloused thumb dry against her swollen lips, his chin digging into her sternum with a sharp defiance.

            “Say it again.”

            “ _John_.”

            She felt him smile into her skin, the rise of his cheeks as he stymied a kiss against her stomach, trailing a lazy line southward, his hands gripping her thighs just beneath her knees, the illusion of patience now quickly slipping away in the tightness with which he held her in place, cracking her thighs open like she was a present to be torn apart. Lips brushed her inner thigh, his furry chin grating against her somewhere nearby, but his fingers preceded his tongue, the pad of his thumb skimming over her clit before he entered her again.

            Anna stifled herself the best she could, chewing down upon her lip even as she squirmed beneath him, the heat of his mouth unbearable as he suckled the sensitive nub, his beard chafing her thighs as instinct drew them closed around his ears. Her legs slipped over his shoulders, her heels digging into his back as his tongue lashed against her, teasing depths no one had touched in  _ages_ , and her heels dug harder. If it hurt—which she as sure it  _did—_ he didn’t complain, his task set to her, stoking that incessant fire with a willful sort of petulance, working her to a screeching height that nearly had her weeping for him. 

            Strangled moans escaped her, despite her best efforts to remain silent, rattling off the pitched ceilings in a way that made her worry someone would hear, but in the same breath she couldn't be bothered to care, her lungs empty of all air as she bucked up against him, the pull of his fingers and the swirl of his tongue too much to bear. The coil in her stomach burned, her thighs trembled, and her chest tightened, every rib and bone pressing sharply through her skin as she sucked in a breath and held it in between her ribs, her eyes squeezed shut so tightly that she saw nothing but white, her mouth open in soundless prayer.

            And then he withdrew. All that warmth, all that _heat_ vanished as quickly as it had built, and Anna collapsed in a whining heap, the frustration of his loss thick on her lips in squabbling words that never really formed any coherence. She struggled again with her sweater, wrenching herself half free, and John helped her the rest of the way, upon her— _again_ —before she had the sense to tell him to stop.

            It didn’t make sense to speak anymore, her arms looped tight around his neck as he kissed her, her sweetness on his lips, the curl of his hand unmistakable around her throat. Only his name felt right, felt _coherent_ , and she murmured it into his mouth, speaking against him as he pulled her closer, his knees spread wide beneath her thighs. She could _feel_ him as he rested against her, the thickness of his cock, the heat of it against her wetness.

            She took him in her hand, guided him against her, and he eased forward at her bidding, the head of his cock sliding past her glistening lips in a slow, almost painful stretch. For a moment, Anna stopped breathing, focused entirely on the sensation of _him_ , how well he fit within her, how beautifully she stretched around him, her legs crossed over his back, fingers scrambling for grip over taut muscle and ancient scars.

             It was lazy, at first, gentle even, in a way that she had not necessarily expected possible of John, his hands beneath her, cradling her close to his chest. His thrusts were patient, calm, biting at the edges of her impatience as all that aching heat came rushing back, but although he seemed to relish her begging, the whines he drew from her as he fucked her, he maintained a steady pace, tender and  _reserved_ even as her teeth sunk into his bottom lip. It was as though he was afraid that he would hurt her, which, she rationalized, was fair. But the pain in her back ceased to matter when her legs inched higher around his middle, the press of his ribs now sharp and rippling against her thighs as she rocked up against him, the slap of skin on skin filling the Ranch along with her pleading obscenities and the _sins_ he whispered into her ear as she took him.

            "Perfect, so  _fucking_ perfect," he shuddered against her throat, squeezing a moan from with desperate thrusts, his teeth sharp against her flesh, threatening to gouge through her. "You were made for  _me_." It seethed into her skin, a proclamation of something so sinister that now tasted like the sweetest of wines.

            Yet John could not hold out forever. His kisses became longer, all fire, teeth and wrath, and she soon began to struggle to keep up with him, the vicious pace he set, now seemingly doggedly determined to break her.

            There was no more patience in him, his hips pounding against hers in a way that made her bones ache, but she hummed her satisfaction, pulling at his hair as he ground into her, his fingers twisted between them, rubbing against her now overly sensitive clit with a rising urgency. He was rushing to the edge, dragging her with him, his eyebrows squeezed together in concentration as his mouth fell open, his every moan long and drawn, thick with lust and silent adoration as she clenched around him, howling for the satisfaction of it all, that drawn wire twanging within her as she came, his name the only word she knew, repeating in breathless moans, the sweetest of prayers.

            He was out of breath, still poised above her, his hips stuttering as he fucked her harder, a glimpse of something real written in pain across his face before he shattered, his forehead hard against hers as he spilled within her, lips moving soundlessly against hers, never really connecting, but speaking all the same. And he held himself there, above her, his arms around her, keeping her close as they struggled to regain their breath, panting against one another. It'd happened too fast, too  _much_ all at once, and panic set in as quickly as resignation. She'd gone too far, hadn't she? Solidified something she'd never wanted to be a part of in the first place, but he was so  _warm_ settled around her, his arms the softest of cages. 

             _Regret_ , fear, a tense tightness around her heart that boiled up into her throat, filling her mouth with the tang of bile escaped her as he coddled her, the sheen of sweat on his brow slick against hers as he kissed her, breathing her in as though he'd never smelt her before, as though this was all  _new_ to him. 

            “ _Anna_ ,” he wheezed, his lips against the shell of her ear, kissing weakly, burning lines over her cheeks, seeking out her mouth again, “I adore you.” And she crumbled for it, for  _him_ , the sweetness of his voice, the depth of his admiration. It was easy to forget everything else, to push it aside when he was so near to her, wrapped tight around her, his lips on her chin, her nose, passing lightly over the bridge between her eyebrows. In that moment, it was easy not to care, to just  _submit_ to him, to all his softness, his creature comforts, and she allowed herself that moment, that rest, the hazy satisfaction he'd endowed her with. 

            She stroked a hand through his hair, easing him off of her, his softened cock sliding out from between her thighs, leaving only an uncomfortable wetness in his wake. She made to move, to slide away from him, but John held her fast. Detangling herself from him was no easy feat. He clung to her like a vine, legs and arms threaded through hers with careful precision, locking her in place. Touch starved was not aggressive enough, but no other word existed to describe the fear with which he pawed at her, and so Anna submitted to him, allowed him to pull her close, to bury himself within her arms, his head drawn low against her chest, the rattle of his heart loud and shattered, her fingers threaded through his damp and sweaty hair. 

            They made love again sometime in the night. Anna remembered stirring him with a kiss, her lips crawling over the jagged lines struck through his chest. She snuck a leg over his hip, and, well, the rest seemed simple, _natural_ even. It’d been a quiet, complacent sort of fucking, his head in her shoulder, her arms beneath his, nails so deep in his back they left blood in their wake, but he didn’t seem to mind, his only complaint that she wasn’t close enough, despite the press of her heel in his spine.

            With John it was never enough, but for a moment he helped her believe she could be. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke this into 2 chapters because it was creeping into the double digits and I felt like that might've been a bit much. I think it was the need to write more fucking that really put me over the top, but we're gonna be smutless for a little bit after this so soak it up ya'll :~) 
> 
> I'll post the second half either tomorrow or Monday because I have no sense of a schedule. Get ready for some a n g s t.
> 
> Also, I wrote a small little thingy about Joseph & the Judge for New Dawn that I might post (I'm still not sure if I really liked the game or not, but it did make me feel things so I suppose that's good).

            She liked his hands. The jagged ridges of his knuckles, the deep valleys within, splattered with ink, bleeding through the layers of his flesh. They weren’t as rough as Jacob’s, or Joseph’s, for that matter, but they weren’t soft either, yet she could rhapsodize about them for hours, how gently they _cradled_ her. When he touched her, it wasn’t always intense. Mostly, it was just in passing, his hands on the back of her neck, sweeping her hair away from her face, a pinky finger curled into her palm, the lilt of a thumb along her jaw.

            In that sense he was insatiable. With him, touch took on all the bearings of a promise, but while he often sook it in her, she rarely gave it. Where John was bold, she was shy, uncertain of how and when to express her affections, if ever at all. And even then, those feelings were still _complicated_. When he’d crawl into her bed in the weary hours of the morning just to push his head into her hands to feel the _scrape_ of her nails along his scalp, she felt just as guilty contemplating snapping his neck as she did slinking into his arms, but without fail she always fell to the latter. It felt _good_ to be wanted by him, to be coddled in his arms, even when he stank of death and his fingers were tacky with blood.

            But what she expected of John, he rarely delivered.

            Since she’d shared his bed, he hadn’t asked for more. Suggested it, _perhaps_ , but she’d anticipated the power going to his head, demanding her to crack her thighs in every moment they had to themselves, but he never did. The ball, as it were, was in her court. Maybe he was waiting on her to make a move, but as it was in most things pertaining to the Seeds, Anna had no clue how to proceed.

            Too much would be sinful, wouldn’t it? Yet too little didn’t seem enough, if John was insatiable, then she was ravenous, but it was easier to play the fool, to toil away the hours running fingers through his hair, studying the scars on his back and kissing him silent when he voiced complaint at her distance, rallying dully against the walls she’d set between them. But he’d seen her through, hadn’t he? Every inch of flesh, every _weak_ thing about her he’d uncovered, yet he didn’t use them against her.  

            John relinquished his hold over her in some small ways. Allowed her to venture out with Rose, to chip away the days with menial work. It helped to be out of the Ranch, to be among people that weren’t the Seeds, but they rarely spoke of anything beyond them. In a way, being so close to the brothers had worked in her benefit, as it had made her integration into the heart of the flock much more bearable. She was their line into the private inner workings of the family, a blessing and a curse, all things considered.

            Weeks passed, and winter began to lapse. Snow came less and less frequently, melting into slow flows at the edges of the road, and Anna _longed_ for it to be done with. She missed the roaring rivers, the green fields, everything about Hope County that had made it so wonderful and golden in the first place. Now it just seemed empty, barren but for the conifers, still merry and green even in the stark white and grey that blanketed the mountains.        

            The holidays must’ve passed, but Anna couldn’t be certain. John kept a calendar, _probably_ , but it seemed to work for the benefit of the Seeds if time moved in a nonlinear fashion. So far as she knew, days and dates held little meaning to them. Jacob had forgone them, so why wouldn’t John?

            But that didn’t stop her for wishing for solidity. She wasn’t sure if it would make her feel better to know if it was December or February. or maybe even April. In the grand scheme of things, it all seemed so inconsequential, but it was the principal of the manner.

            “You look troubled.” Rose was beside her, thin fingers digging through layers of donated clothes, separating them between genders, ages and potential use. Evidently, donations to the Project were a commonality, Joseph’s word had reached nearly every corner of the nation, if only in whispers.

            “If you’re to be believed, then I always look troubled, Rose.” It was a familiar phrase, one she often heard, accompanied by the light touch of her hand.

            “Perhaps I should say that you look— _contemplative_ , like you’ve always got something going on in that head of yours, but it’s tough to tell what. You don’t wear normally wear your thoughts on your face.” She shrugged. “But when you _do_ ,” Rose trailed for a moment, pausing in her folding to pinch her lip between her teeth, sucking in wind sharply, “it’s as terrifying as it is beautiful.”

            “Thank you?” Anna smiled, but her eyebrows were raised so high across her forehead, they nearly disappeared into her hair, knotted back at the crown of her head, long wriggling strands cast down over her forehead.

            “Careful with that,” Rose stole a t-shirt out of Anna’s hands, tossing it to the ground into a pile of rejected clothing, “another dud. We’ll have to find another purpose for it. Bedding for the Judges, maybe.”

            “What was wrong with it?”

            “Sinful phrasing. We don’t need any commercial products here, we’ve got the word of the Father, and that’s enough.”

            “And the hymns.” Anna added, tight folding a fraying sweater and setting it aside.

            They worked quickly, passing time with weary conversation. Rose gave little away, but Anna garnered some truths from her. She had children, no husband— _dead_ , maybe, but also just as likely that they’d divorced. She’d lived in Hope County all her life, and _damn_ if she wasn’t determined to die here too. Something in that was admirable to Anna, if a little _odd_.

            “Can I ask you something personal, Anna?”

            “Of course.”

            “John is so—” Rose paused in her folding, head crooked back as she searched for the _right_ word. “Fickle. He can profess his love in the same breath that he’ll condemn a sinner to death. I’ve known him for years, yet I don’t really feel like I know him at all. You’ve got fresher eyes than any of us. What do you think?”

            “I can’t pretend to be an expert on any of the Seeds. I’ve only known them for a few months.” Anna shrugged, feigning only slight interest in their conversation as she set to folding a thick flannel.

            “It’s been more than a few months, and, if rumor is correct, you do _live_ with him, don’t you? You’re closer to them than any of us.” She pressed, and Anna shrank into herself a little bit more, the lights beneath which they worked a bit closer than she remembered, pressing in on her personal space. Everything about it seemed a trap. What if John had set her up? Or Joseph? It wasn’t beyond them to try and squeeze a confession out of her this late in the game, but if she had to make a bet on which brother it was, it’d be John. It reeked of his meddling. Perhaps he didn’t believe in her conviction, her _dedication_. “I don’t mean to gossip, Anna, but it’s hard not to pry. When an initiate goes to the Ranch it normally isn’t a good thing, but you come and go as you please. I just—I want to know what he’s _like_. Behind closed doors, beyond all that _bravado_.”

            “He’s _gentle_.” Anna replied flatly, the most she could muster without ruining herself entirely. “They all are. A bit rough, maybe, but _softer_ than most in their way.”

            “ _Oh_.” Rose took her by the hand, squeezing tight, her eyes filled to the brim with a painful sort of joy, lips stretched into the broadest of smiles. It almost seemed fake. “Now that’s somethin’ to think about, isn’t it? John Seed, soft in his way.”

            As if on cue, a third body wedged itself between them, hands on their shoulders, guiding them closer. It hadn’t escaped Anna that John enjoyed a dramatic flair, but her cheeks burned at the realization that he’d likely overheard what she’d said. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t slandered him, only that he had heard her. She could’ve professed her love for him, or called him a spineless pig and the same flush would’ve burned through her.

            “ _Apologies_ , Rose, but I must steal away your spare pair of hands for the rest of the evening. She’ll return to you tomorrow.” John spoke with a genial lilt, though his hand curled at the back of her neck, fingers pressing lightly against the curled ends of her hair. “After service, of course.”

            “I’m not finished yet,” Anna argued, “there’s more to be done.”

            “It brings me joy to see you taking so much pride in your work.” John bit back, meeting her gaze with staunch firmness. “Perhaps you could try folding another shirt, or does this one require a third pass?”

            Anna opened her mouth to spit something at him, to ask where on _Earth_ he’d gotten the gall to—but in her hands she held the same ratty flannel, twisting it nervously between knobby fingers. She must’ve folded it and unfolded it about a half dozen times in her conversation with Rose and she hadn’t even noticed it.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Rose assured her, squeezing her hand lightly before freeing her with a flick of her fingers, offering a blessing to John as he passed by, something he seemed to be flattered by. If it was real or not, Anna couldn’t be certain. He bled at too many edges, his visage a muddy one, but she let him lead her to his car, tuck her in and steal her away, back to the Ranch for safekeeping.

            John was a dragon, and she his _hoard_ , maybe not of gold, but of endless company. Even when she did not wish it, he came to her, soaked up her time and her comfort with no care for the limits of her affection. But it was _good_ to be wanted, even by him. Though she knew that her blood should boil beneath the pass of his fingers, that every little hair on the back of her neck should stand on end at just the thought of his _warmth_ , but the effect was entirely the opposite. She enjoyed him for all his _weathered_ curiosities, even when he left blood stains on her sheets.

            The ride back was quiet, their separation doubly so. He often worked before he retired, bent over thick books—more like _tomes—_ on county law, his pen scratching away into the early hours of the morning. When he wasn’t digging for confessions, John was set to expanding the reach of Eden’s Gate, scrounging through deeds and written agreements in the places where money couldn’t buy his way. She wondered where he found the time to chauffer her around, but John seemed to have it in handfuls. She was never too much for him, and she felt guilty that he was sometimes much _too_ much for her.

            But they were so _domestic_ now, or as close as they could come to it, and the plague of uncertainty followed her throughout the Ranch, even when Anna barred herself in the bathroom and smoked herself out with blistering water, scalding herself from toes to nose.

            If she could be thankful for anything it was running water. Even the stale, scentless soap John had lent her seemed a blessing. She wondered idly what she smelt like to him as she stood in the rush, water cascading down her front, her chin crooked back to keep hot water from splashing up her nose. It was a foolish thought, but he’d never smelled anything less than _warm_ to her, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had a similar effect on him.

            In silence, Anna pulled on her pajamas and threw herself into bed, landing in a pile of knotted limbs and unwieldy hair. It seemed to grow messier with each passing day, the long curls and waves entirely unamused with the dryness of winter and the harshness of the Ranch’s water. She’d given up on keeping it tame, and the result had been a bushy cloud of tangled knots, tempered only when wet or wound into a braid.

            Hours ticked by, and Anna slipped in and out of a restless sleep. She dreamt of little—passing faces, whispers of the empty kind, but nothing of note. It’d been months since her last nightmare. If the Seeds were good at anything, it was purging _poor_ memories, but the press of something wet on her cheek caused her to stir, the fog of exhaustion thick in her eyes, her throat wet and sticky, lips dried with the softness of slumber.

            John hushed her quietly, a thumb to her lips, pressing gently to stem the flow of anxious warbles that sprung to her tongue. His weight was upon her chest, if only partially, an arm crossed over her chest, his hand settled in beside her shoulder, the other combing through her hair. In the glow of the dim silver of the moon filtering in through the curtains his eyes gleamed, the press of his eyebrows sharp and certain as he watched her. She could feel his breath, hot and damp upon her lips, and she swallowed hard, twisting back into the pillow only for John to follow, his teeth meeting hers before his mouth.

            He was so _easy_ to kiss, so _easy_ to drown in. She should’ve hated it, not the action itself, but how _softly_ his lips parted hers, how warm his hands were upon her face, but she didn’t, not in the slightest. Canting his head, John moved her to the side, deepening the kiss while pushing her away from the edge, making a space for his knees as he bowed over her. She tried to speak, tried to murmur something against his lips, but John only pressed deeper, his forehead squashed against her own, neck craned to the side to suck the life from her and she _squirmed_ beneath him.

            Something was _wrong_. He was too intent, too driven, his hands beneath her shirt, a knee wedged firmly between her thighs, pressed too close too quickly. Twisting to the side, she pulled her head away, and he gave a lazy chase, his teeth grazing her chin, lips on her throat as a hand moved lower, and she bucked upwards, not out of pleasure, but rather _annoyance_.

            “ _Wait_.” She half snarled the word, clutching at his forearm, the twang of hardened muscle snapping beneath her fingers as he looked up at her, breathless and wanting, but there was _more_ in his gaze, tucked away in the black blue corners of his eyes. “Too eager.”

            “Should I be less enthused?” He cocked an eyebrow, the lilt of his voice teasing, but a quiet fear hung in his gaze, something as wry as it was cold. “It’s been weeks,” _oh_ , “have you grown bored of me already, Anna?” The way he _said_ it, trapped somewhere between jest and truth, as though he’d already prepared for her disdain as an inevitable outcome.

            “No.” She said.

            “Don’t you want me?”

            “Of course, I do.”

            He sucked in a breath, obviously pleased with her answer, but her hands had yet to loosen around his arm, nails dug deep into his flesh, keeping his hand flush against her abdomen. Anna wished she could see him better, that she could watch his face as he worked out her defiance, her _rejection_ of him if only to understand what he was thinking. John wore so much on his face.

            “Then why—” he choked out the words through a huff of exasperation, fingers drumming along the waistband of her panties. “You want me, yet you don’t. You _refuse_ me.”

            “John,” she tugged at his hand, hoping to move him aside, but he refused her. If anything, he rested more of his weight upon her, pressing down like a mountain upon her stomach. “I’m _exhausted_. You only ever come to me in the middle of the night, and—”

            “Because you never see me in the day.” He spat back. “If I did not come to you, I doubt that you would seek me out of your own volition.”

            She paused for a moment, rapt in her hesitancy, before asking: “is that what you want?”

            “ _Yes_.”

            “I,” she trailed off for a moment, chewing down on her bottom lip in thought, stringing together words that did not feel _right_ , but would offer some semblance of the assuredness he sought, “you are too eager.” She echoed. “It’s been _awhile_ since I’ve— _received_ such affection.”

            “It’s been awhile since I’ve given it.”

            He withdrew as quickly as the words left him, as though wounded by them, their presence in the world an offense to him. Twisting in the sheets, Anna turned away from him, though her thighs remained parted around his knee, the strength of his hands upon her thighs keeping them locked in place, and she reached for the lamp at her bedside, seeking more light, but John denied her. He pulled her back, shepherded her into place beneath him, and in the dark she waited for him, for _more_ to be said, but for the first time since she’d met him, John seemed to relish the gift of _silence_.

            Wriggling onto her elbows, Anna propped herself up and reached out a hand toward him. She’d been aiming for his face, but her fingers only reached the sharp protrusion of his collar bone, struck forward like a lighthouse in the dark, and so she settled on his chest, resting her palm over his heart, thumping away steadily within his chest.

            “When I was— _guideless_ I sought refuge in sin. I gave myself to it. Body and soul, and I tricked myself, _lied_ to myself that I’d found meaning in the bodies of others.” Words did not come quickly from him. They stuttered and stumbled from his lips, their cadence uncommonly slow for John. They _hurt_ to speak, but all she could do was _listen_. “It felt good to be needed. Didn’t matter by who, only that I _served_ a purpose, that I was— _meaningful_ , but I ruined myself—my _body_. It was only a fleeting vision of _love_ , yet I clung to it in every person that I drowned in my sin.”

            His hands relinquished her legs and she withdrew enough to sit up, grabbing at him blindly, hands on his cheeks, in his hair, pulling him as close as he would allow, but John did not indulge her desires. Not this time. He held her at a distance, his face _close_ to hers, but far enough away that she could only barely sense the passing of his breath.

            “Do you want me?” He asked again, the curl of his fingers tight around her forearms.

            “Yes.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t know, I—” it was impossible not to hesitate, not to stumble over the words. She’d never been open like this, with _anyone_ , not Pratt, not Whitehorse, not Joseph, not any former flame or lover, not even her _parents_ , but John made it seem simple. “You—I am _whole_ when I am with you, I am truly myself.” She could not keep up with the pace of her own speech, every word slurred, and half formed. “You do not judge, you do not hate, all that I have done, every pain that I have inflicted has been washed away by your forgiveness and for the first time in my _life_ I am at peace. Your love—”

            John kissed her silent, stealing the words from her as he wrapped her in his warmth, arms falling tight around her ribs to crush her body against his. He drew her closer with his sweetness, the pull of him magnetic, hands laced tightly behind her back, and she fell into him with all the grace she could manage, fingers in his hair, gripping tightly at the roots.

            She couldn’t tell if it was she who had fallen back into the sheets, or he who had pushed her, but it mattered little when John was above her, the heat of his hands flush against her thighs, peeling away her inhibitions to leave her bare beneath him. His patience seemed to be running thin, the slowness of her hands too teasing for his liking as he undressed himself, superseding her coyness in a dogged effort to be _closer_ to her. His flesh _burned_ , the brush of his hands like fire beneath her breasts, gripping at her ribs as he claimed her mouth, steering her into a position he liked.

            Anna _tried_ to keep up with him, to meet his pace, to match his _passion_ , but it was easier to let him lead. She stole what power she could in every kiss she planted upon his temple, her fingers in his hair, scraping at his scalp, pulling loose the slicked back locks, but, if anything, that only seemed to _thrill_ him.

            Breath did not come easy to her, it wheezed through her lips as his bit down into her neck, sucking bruises to the surface, drawing out a tangled mess of whines from somewhere deep within her throat. He was _unbearable_ , but she could not break from him, nor did she _want_ to.

            His hand was between her thighs, her legs hooked over his hips, the calloused press of his thumb curious against her clit, barely touching, if not simply ghosting above the tight bundle of nerves, the workings of his mouth against hers a painful distraction from the pooling heat below. She would’ve bucked up, pressed herself against him to ride out the waves of warmth she _knew_ he could give, but John had her pinned at the hips, his free hand keeping her firmly in place.

            She must’ve looked a fool beneath him, so slight within his arms, pressed into the mattress so firmly she could nearly feel the crook of the springs beneath curling up into her back, but it barely registered in her waking mind. He was a fog, a great sea she was glad to drown in, sinking deep into the churning writhe of his voracity, biting back against him when he kissed her mouth, the sharpness of her teeth cutting ruby lines into his bottom lip.

            “ _Vicious_ ,” he barely spoke it and rather _moaned_ the word into her mouth, filling her up with his breath, the scrape of his lashes against her cheek a testament to their closeness, but it didn’t seem enough, she wanted _more_. “And you thought me eager.” He teased, the curl of his fingers cupping the wetness of her cunt, pressing tight, but not _enough_ to give her anything real. “So _wet_ —just for _me_.”

            It should’ve made her blush, the sinfulness of it, but she didn’t care, the rise of her hips now unburdened by the press of his hand as it traveled up her chest, pinching an already hardened nipple as she ground against his other hand. She clutched at him, nails in his back, every tendon and every vein raised behind weary flesh as she rocked herself upwards, using him as a weight, a guide, a _support_ as she chased her own pleasure, and John seemed more than pleased to provide. He mouthed at her, his lips traveling between her breasts, the heat of his tongue still lingering upon her skin as he sucked a nipple into his mouth, pulling upon it so tightly it almost _hurt_ , the scrape of his teeth threatening to clamp down around the sensitive bud.

            Something hoarse and _raw_ dragged itself from her when his finger crooked into her wet heat, sliding past the knuckle without so much as a pause, and he kissed her silent when he began to twist the digit, swallowing her panting moans as she rose toward him, meeting the curl of his finger with every well timed thrust. A second finger pressed her apart, and then a third left her squealing, the kiss of sweat on her brow, chest straining with the effort of holding her breath, squeezing it within her lungs. All she could focus on was the grace of his fingers, the swirl of his tongue around her nipples, the sharpness of his teeth in her neck.

            He was everywhere, his touch unburdened and unwarranted, slipping through her boundaries with such ease it should’ve left her in ruins. It coiled in her belly, that subtle winding, curling up beneath her ribs, and she whined beneath him, half coherent, gripping tightly at his wrist to pull him away, and he relented, if only slightly, his gaze fixed entirely upon her.

            “I need you,” she said, speaking against his lips and John sighed against her, a breathless chuckle billowing between them, but she pressed herself upwards before he could say anything in response, catching him off balance and off guard as she pushed him over. He landed on his back with a soft _thud_ , submitting, if only cautiously, to her machinations as she straddled his waist, catching his mouth in a whisper of a kiss.

            She steadied herself against him, a hand on his shoulder, the other between them, curled tightly around his weeping cock, stroking him with a torturous sort of patience. He keened beneath her, attempting, with some success, to buck up into her hand, but it felt _good_ to make him wait, to have the upper hand for what felt like the first time in _months_.

            For a moment, she wondered if he felt the same way when he was above her, if it brought him any sort of satisfaction to see her struggle and _writhe_ at even the gentlest of his touches. She imagined it did, John thrived on the essence of control, but when their places were switched, she understood why. It was _powerful_ to be above him, to have him in her hand and at her mercy, but even she could only hold out for so long. As thrilling as it was to hold the reigns, that fell second chair to other more _pressing_ needs.

            The strain in her thighs was almost delightful as she adjusted herself above him, a hand on his chest as the other guided him toward her slick heat. She paused for a moment, allowing him to linger at the cusp of nirvana, and John sucked in a breath, chest rising beneath her hands and then stilling, the head of his cock just barely passing between her glistening lips before she eased herself down onto his length, breathing out a sigh of relief that she did not know she’d been holding in.   

            It took a moment for them to find a rhythm. John, in his eagerness, snapped up too quickly, hands clutching at her waist, but Anna was content to rock, the roll of her hips much softer than his. It would be _easier_ to cede control, to relinquish what little power she’d earned, but Anna kept at it, both hands on his chest, keeping him pinned back to the bed, the weight of her body pushing him down, and his thrusts _softened_ , meeting her in a gloriously languid motion. There was _strength_ in the way he rose against her, a firmness that met his need for _domination_ , but the grind of her seemed to suit him, every inch that she took drawing desperate moans from his parted lips.

            Beneath her he panted, muttering out _sinful_ deviances as she rolled her hips, the heat of his hands bouncing back and forth between her hips and her breasts, unsure of where to go or what to do, but driven entirely by the need to touch.

            She was short of breath now, working harder, very aware of a bead of sweat carving a line down her back, but it didn’t matter, nothing did, nothing but _him_ , and the burning heat between her thighs. It bloomed within her chest, that stifling warmth, curling down into her belly, twisting it to knots and bows as she rode him _faster_ , the bite of his nails like knives in her waist.

            “ _Harder_.” John rarely made idle suggestions, but this escaped him as a plea, a shy wanting passed through wet lips. “Anna, please—”

            Her head fell back, a tousled wave of curls tumbled over her shoulders, cascading down her back as her chin pressed upwards, miles of flesh exposed in the dim light of the moon, and he leant up to her, his arms wrapping around her waist, drawing them chest to chest as his knees pulled up. She was in his lap, still working at a speed that made her bones _ache_ , his lips beneath her chin, crawling upwards, seeking her mouth even as she moaned.

            John drew her into a kiss as his hand wormed between them, searching out her clit and circling it with a deft precision. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, her face buried into his neck, Anna endured him for all that she could, every muscle tensed as she rushed to the edge, hurdling toward a precipice that seemed keen to undo her, and she nearly collapsed within his arms with the _clench_ of perfection, howling his name as she came undone.

            But John was not through. In a flash, she was beneath him, legs pulled sloppily around his waist as he pistoned into her, the _smack_ of skin upon skin nearly as loud as her clawing whimpers. It was _too_ much, every nerve was on fire, oversensitive and overstimulated, but his expression had folded, his eyes squeezed shut, jaw locked as he pounded into her, the rattle of the bedframe so loud she feared it might collapse beneath them.

            Then he gasped, spat out a breath that hurt her lungs to hear and slowed between her thighs, gifting her with a few last thrusts before withdrawing from her completely, leaving only a wet heat in his wake, panting and wheezing as he struggled to find his breath.

            A moment passed in which they did nothing but breathe, but eventually John spoke, his voice worn and hoarse; “are you alright?”

            “Yes,” she said, “are you?”

            “I think so.” A hand sought hers, a sweaty palm dragging up her thigh to wrap around her wrist, pulling her closer to him. “Have I ever told you I adore you?”

            “Plenty of times.”

            “Not nearly enough.” He lamented, planting a string of wet kisses upon her brow and she curled into his open arms. His head was above hers, the press of his chin sharp against her crown, an arm pulled loosely around her shoulders, a hand linked with hers upon his chest, the thundering of his heart slowly softening with the weary cadence of his breath. She almost expected him to say more, John was rarely short on words, but now he seemed content, and they lie entangled in the dark, quietly drifting into a deep and easy sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter I'm currently working on is titled "fuck cabin". I'm not sure why I wanted you to know that, but now you do. 
> 
> I'll be leaving for a very short 5 day Icelandic adventure over Spring Break, but I'm hoping I'll have enough time to crank out at least one more chapter before I head out :^)

            When Anna woke, it was to the chiming of an alarm, shattering and distant, echoing through the hallways of the Ranch from a room that seemed miles away. John was above her, his head on her chest, the scrape of his stubbled jaw working against her breasts as he groaned against her, quietly stirring to consciousness. She felt the shift of his weight as he unwound himself from her, rolling out of bed and to the ground, and he staggered away, the stumbling thudding of his feet fading to a dull tapping as he made his way through the Ranch, and she stretched onto her side, turning over into the mountain of displaced sheets and pillows that had amassed in the corner of her bed. Though she did not _sleep_ , she did drift, sinking back into that hazy sort of complacency between wakefulness and _peace_ until John pulled her back to consciousness, a hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake.

            Stifling a yawn into the back of her hand, she turned to look at him, blinking rapidly to clear the bleariness in her eyes, the sting of the overhead light almost too much to bear. He was half dressed, shirt untucked and hair undone, standing over her with an outstretched hand.

            “Get up.”

            “It’s still dark out.” She did not mean to whine, but it was difficult not to.

            “You need to get dressed.”

            “Where on Earth could we be going?” Anna groaned as he helped her up, righting her with a threadbare sort of patience. She was still only half alive, glancing out the window again just to reaffirm to herself that _yes_ it was still dark outside.

            “Mass.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Joseph asked if we’d attend earlier this week,” he explained in hoarse tones as he tucked his shirt into his jeans, “and I’ve already told him you’d be coming, so get going. We don’t want to be late.”        

            “I didn’t—” she chewed down on her tongue for a moment, the effort of processing information taking much more out of her than it should have, “were you ever going to give me time to consider it?” She asked, her expression folded, if not entirely resentful, as she stared up at him, thick eyebrows pressed into a sharp v. “Or were you always planning to jump it on me.”

            “You tend to be more agreeable in the morning.” He remarked dryly. “I figured now was the best time to— _breech_ the subject.”

            “But is it a good idea?”

            John grumbled something thickly dark between his teeth as he looped his belt, pulling it tight before he met her gaze, half crouched to meet her head on.

            “I’ll be there,” he pinched her chin lightly, “and so will Joseph. He wouldn’t have asked you to come if he didn’t think you were ready for it. You’re as much a part of this family as any other initiate, so you’ve got no reason to be worried and no excuses to miss out.” He paused for a moment, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smile, eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer, the _stench_ of his cologne too fresh to be ignored. “ _Although_ , you are endearingly adorable when you’re angry.”

            He kissed her before she could punch him, a quick, chaste thing before tearing away, pulling her off the bed by her wrists and ushering her into the bathroom. She was still grappling with he concept of being awake as she brushed her teeth.

            No amount of John’s reassurances could convince her that this was a good idea. Sure, she got along with Rose fairly well, but her exposure to the other Peggies had been very _light_ up until this point. She knew so few of them directly, though it seemed likely that many of them knew _her_ through her prior exploits, yet if that were the case then it seemed natural that they would _loathe_ her.

            Anna only half heartedly brushed her hair before settling for a loose braid, ceding some mirror space to John who combed his hair back tightly. She _knew_ the Ranch had other bathrooms, but he seemed to revel in her space, and she was in no mood to send him away. If anything, she _liked_ it. She dressed in dark jeans and a flannel that was two sizes too big for her, but settled in nicely over her narrow shoulders when she tucked it in.

            “John?” She asked quietly as she studied herself in the bathroom mirror, twisting in place to look at herself at all the angles she _knew_ were imperfect.

            “Hm?”

            “Do I look alright?”

            It seemed so silly, a string of words she never imagined she’d have to ask him, and yet now it seemed she hinged on his approval, or rather, her reputation did. It was one thing to go to mass a sinner, and another entirely to show up bruised with affection. He approached her with a stilted sort of grin, lopsided and weary on his lips as he glanced over her image in the mirror.

            “A little _tousled_ ,” he smoothed a hand over her hair, twisting the braid around his hand to urge her head backwards, planting a wet kiss upon her forehead. "But decent enough."

            “Decent enough.” She echoed softly, straightening her shirt as he walked away.

            “Come on, we don’t want to be any later than we already are.”

            She let John lead her down the stairs and to the door, pulling on jackets, hats, and gloves before they stepped outside, the fog of their breath filling the air. Spring might’ve been on its way, but Hope County would be _damned_ before it let go of the chill. In the dark the valley was peaceful, soundless and sightless out of sight of the sun or the moon. Not even the stars twinkled above them, blocked out by gray, motionless clouds.

            Anna pulled herself into the truck, her hands squished between her knees as she waited for John to start the engine, but something seemed _off_ in him. He sat still in the dark, hands perched upon the wheel, a quirked tick pulling down at his lips.

            “Are you alright?” She asked.

            “I’m worried.”

            “What about?”

            “I don’t know.” It was odd to see him so removed. John, of the three, was the most open with his emotions, perhaps _too_ open, but he was withdrawing from her now, the crook of his mouth pulling deeper as she stared at him, waiting for something beyond uncertainty. “Your mouth is bruised.” He remarked lightly, reaching over to touch her lips, and she smiled against his thumb, accepting him in the only way she knew how.

            “You kiss too hard.”

            “You seem to like it.”

            “I do.”

            They lingered for a moment longer before the truck roared to life, and the pulled out onto the main road, speeding into the burgeoning dawn. It grappled with the mountains as it rose through the night, a blossoming sort of warmth that seemed to fill the sky to bursting before it overflowed, spilling into the valley below, and catching flame with an unparalleled ease. But darkness remained, a purple blue that stuck to the corners of the heavens, refusing to budge even in what was meant to be a holy hour.

            The chapel emerged through the darkness in a pinnacle of white, and Anna felt her stomach draw through her back. It was a sickening feeling, the seat of all her hatred, and yet it felt familiar. She’d been there before. Only once, but it was scorched into her memory. The way he’d felt, his hands on hers, asking to set him free, but there’d been no pleading in his eyes, only quiet understanding. Even then, the Father had known. Even then he’d been asking her to believe, to _trust_ him, and then she’d launched herself off a bridge because _that_ had seemed like it was the only sensible option.

            John exited before her, lending her his shoulder to support her weight as she dropped down onto muddy ground. The island was drenched in weeping snow, but the compound was clear of it. She had a hard time believing Joseph had shoveled it all away, and set her bets on the Peggies doing it for him.

            In a slow procession they made their way to the tiny chapel, John’s hand tight around her upper arm. There must’ve been fifty people, maybe more, all staggering toward the open doors, swaying against one another like grass in a field. There was no pushing, no shoving, only slow meandering, a peaceful progression into the warm alcove of the church.

            Joseph was waiting for them, stood like a rock in a sea of bodies, shaking hands and touching faces, his expression ever placid, brightening only when addressed directly. The sun rose behind him, great cascades of golden light filtering in through the windows, catching on dust and smoke as he bid greeting after greeting, never tiring or boring of the phrase, his voice never less than genial.

            She scanned the room for a familiar face and caught the eye of Rose to Joseph’s left, bundled up into a pew at the front. They smiled at each other, one far less jovial than the other, but Rose did not seem to notice, but beside her, further to the left against the wall hung a familiar shade. The bowed and wracked form of Staci Pratt curled over himself in shadow. Anna began to deviate, slipping her arm out of John’s to move toward him, but Staci seemed to notice nothing but his own feet, his eyes cast downward, neck craned as though he longed to turn his skull into his chest.

            “This way.” John urged, catching her by the wrist and tugging her in the opposite direction. “To the front, Anna. Joseph will be glad to see you.” He ushered her forward with a stiff sort of gentleness, his hands moving up to her shoulders, guiding her through the uneven rows of pews, making a direct line to Joseph who’s caught her eye with a weary smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges. There was warmth in his gaze, the palpable sort, tangible even at a great distance, radiating off of him in a halo of golden light.

            The world seemed to be pushing her toward him, and no amount of pausing or stammering would stop John from guiding her into Joseph’s extended hands, the press of his palms like fire upon her cheeks. There was nothing but _warmth_ in him, a love so magnificent it nearly dripped from his tongue as he spoke, his honeyed words the softest of salves to her weathered soul.

            “You look weary, my child.” He remarked lightly, the divinity of his attention burning a hole through Anna’s skull, but before she could answer, John spoke for her.

            “God’s work is tiring.”

            “But fulfilling, nonetheless.” Joseph offered, pinching her chin between his forefinger and thumb. “Do you feel whole, Anna?” He asked, and she nodded, swallowing hard as his thumb passed over her mouth, tracing the lines of John’s affection. Joseph was no fool, he _knew_ , or she strongly suspected he did—how could he not—, but if he did, he said nothing, releasing her face to take her hand in his, offering the other to John who accepted it with silent glee. “You’ve done well. The both of you.”   

            “Thank you, Joseph.” John squeezed her shoulder lightly, and Anna offered as small a thanks as she could bear to utter.

            “We’ll talk more later.” Joseph stood aside, opening up the aisle to them, and John led her forward, his hand navigating to the small of her back to lead her toward a pew at the very front. Anna took the aisle seat, and John wedged himself in beside her, his hand gracing her knee for a moment before it fell to his lap, nestling with the other to form a threaded basket of fingers between his knees.

            “You can relax.” He murmured into her ear as Joseph made his way to the front of the room, hands raised to calm the clamoring crowd. “Your home is here, dearest. You’re no stranger to us.”

            She opened her mouth to say something in response, but Joseph spoke over her, and John drifted away, the warmth of his breath lingering on the shell of her ear, a minor sin as she watched Joseph. He ascended to the front of the church to stand before them, not behind a pulpit, but as a _man_.

            “My children,” when he spoke it was in rapturous tones, full to the brim with the height of his conviction, but just as warm, “every week I find myself thankful for you, for our family, for every new brother and sister that joins us in our march toward Eden’s Gate. We must _continue_ to grow so that we may prosper in the aftermath of the Collapse, but to grow we must open our hearts to those that would cause us harm. We must find love for the sinful, for they are as we once were.”  

            Anna sucked in wind sharply at that, holding her breath, but Joseph didn’t look at her, in fact, he looked at none of them, but rather saw _all of them_ , his hands sweeping through the air as he spoke, impassioned by the sincerity of his visions. And it was then that Anna realized she’d never seen him preach before, that she’d never listened to his words, or heard him speak of Eden’s Gate. To read it was one thing, but to _see_ it, to _hear_ it, the beauty that poured from his tongue, flooding the chapel with promises of glory.

            Somewhere along the line, she heard the door croak open, and creak shut, and turned just in time to see the back of Jacob’s head as he made his way to the wall. She tried not to linger on him, _tried_ not to make her gaze obvious, but he noticed her right away, and for a moment they locked eyes, unspeaking and unflinching, before the tap of John’s hand tore her eyes away.

            If the chapel had been silent before, then it was now a graveyard. More than one pair of eyes were upon her, but the only ones that seemed to matter were Joseph’s. His hand was extended to her, his expression flat and unreadable, and her stomach sank low into her shell, pitted by a dozen stones. Her mouth had grown dry, and her hands shook with clammy tremors, but John urged her forward, his hand on her shoulder, pushing her out of her seat and toward Joseph.

            She suddenly felt very small. The walk to Joseph must’ve been less than a few feet, yet it felt like a thousand miles, and with every inching step she took, he seemed to grow further away, a grand illusion in the desert of her mind. His hands found hers, and he turned her to the crowd, his hands on her shoulders, presenting her to them as though she were some sort of beast. Her breath went faster than she had time to hold onto it, and she was thankful for the weight of his hands upon her. Without them, she felt she would crumple into a heap of bones at his feet.

            “When she came to us she was _lost._ ” He held her by the shoulders, her ribs echoing with every word that he spoke, his voice growing firmer with every conviction that left his lips. “ _They_ blinded her with their selfish ambitions, their meaningless dogmas, because they could not be bothered to understand us, but Anna was _open_. Fearful, _yes_. Reactive, _yes._ But with your _love_ she has seen the light. She may not have come to us with purpose, but her presence among us is no mistake. It is the will of God that she is here,” he was beside her now, arm wrapped tight around her shoulders, holding her close to his side, “and it is by His will that she will join my brother’s and I and lead you through Eden’s Gate.”

            _What?_

            Anna wanted to turn to him, to _question_ him, but he held her firm, his thumb pressed sharply into the back of her neck, keeping her head set forward, but the room was flooded with a murmuring discontent. John’s eyes searched hers out, plying and uncertain. He’d moved forward in his seat, as though preparing to stand, leaned over his knees ever so slightly, ready to pounce. Even Jacob had turned his eyes to her, the weight of his gaze unmistakable even in a crowd of this size, a foggy darkness lingering in his glance.

            “I understand your hesitance, my children. I too struggled with the acceptance of this stranger, of this _beast_ that lurked among us, but in my brothers, and in you, she has found salvation. Without you, she could not have _found_ her path,” he gripped her tighter, squeezed her so sharply into him that she could feel the protrusion of his hips against her, the sharpness of bone, “when you leave today, remember that we were _all_ once misguided. There is not one among us here that did not need to be shown the way. We were _born_ pure, but it was the world that corrupted us, and only through God were we made clean again. All that we do is in His name, every action that we take is for his glory.” Joseph spoke above the rumbling crowd, quieting them with an unnerving amount of ease. “Find the love in your heart for the most unlikely of people, for not only your neighbors, or your family, but for your enemies. It is our burden and our privilege to guide them, but you _must_ love them first.”

            The way he said it, the thickness with which he spoke those words made her _ache_. Part of her wanted to crawl to John, to seek fulfilment in his arms, to hear his reassurances whispered against her ear, and another to Jacob, to bind herself in his protection, to shield herself from the world with his strength, but she could do nothing but stand before the Father as he bid his congregation goodbye, wishing them blessing after blessing as they passed before her.

            She didn’t realize she was being spoken to until John touched her cheek, a worm of concern wriggling across his brow. “Are you alright?”

            “I don’t know.” She passed between them, from Joseph to John, who met his brother with some measure of incredulity. He hovered beside her as though he was _protecting_ her, but Anna felt too close, too stifled by the both of them, yet she felt glued to the spot, still reeling from Joseph’s announcement.

            “Is this certain?” John asked quietly.

            “I was shown a vision of glory, of strength and _healing_ , and it was Anna who stood beside us, no other but her.” Joseph reassured. “Her presence among us was pre-ordained, John, spoken unto me by God. She came to us an aggressor, but it is time she took her place beside us.”

            “I— _Joseph_ ,” he seemed to _want_ to argue, to push back against his brother, and the two descended into hushed words, John relinquishing the grip on her hand she hadn’t even known he’d taken as he bowed his head. They went back and forth, whispering to one another, and for all her worries, Anna quietly drifted away, weaving into the crowd of worshippers headed outdoors.

            The church now seemed too small, too stifling to fit her fears, and she rushed into the cool morning air, searching for her breath among the lingering crowd of Peggies. A hand took hers, steering her away from the milling congregation, leading her around the side of the church, and Anna let herself fall back against the peeling wooden siding, her throat bare and exposed as she paced her breathing, the rush of blood too loud in her ears for her to hear the strain in her lungs.

            “Anna,” Staci was speaking to her, his eyes sharp and narrow as he stared at her, but there was fear in his glance, with how low he held himself, as though preparing to flee at a moment’s notice. “ _Anna_ , calm down, _breathe_.” He coached her in a trembling voice, the brush of his fingers cool over her heart, and she slowly came down to Earth, swallowing every tangled knot and lump that ricocheted out of her stomach and into her throat.

           “Jesus Christ,” she pressed her head into her hands, the heels of her palms digging into her eyes so sharply she saw stars, “what the fuck am I supposed to do about this?”

            Staci said nothing. He simply watched her, eyes flitting over her cautiously, a removed sort of distress worked over his face, and she shook her head, clearing her throat. There would be time to argue with Joseph later, but time with _Staci_ was so slim. It’d been months since their last meeting, and he was far worse for the wear. She’d never seen him so thin.

            “How are you?” She asked softly, sandwiching his hand between hers, but Staci seemed to struggle to meet her gaze, his eyes flitting back and forth between the ground and whatever it was he saw over her shoulder. “Staci—”

            “Something’s going to happen.” He said it so quietly she barely heard him, the words pouring from his lips like an unhinged spout. “It’ll be fast, but you’ll have time.”

            “Time for what?”

            “To run.” He hissed. “Go north. If we go _together_ , we’ll have a better chance. You’re strong, strong enough for the both of us. We can make it, we have to _try_.”

            “It’s too dangerous.” She bit back, squeezing his hand tighter, a sudden panic welling up in her chest, but she kept her voice low, taking a step toward him in the mud. “We’re surrounded, Staci, we’d never get far.”

            He studied her face for a moment, dark eyes boring into hers, before his expression fell, a thick disappointment sinking into his gaze: “you don’t want to leave.”

            “That’s—it’s not that. We’re _trapped_ here. They’ve got to be waiting for us to make a wrong move. If we step out of line, that’s it.”

            “Is that any worse than staying with _him_?” He nearly spat the words at her, so close now she could feel the warmth of his breath, the stench of the cages in his hair. “I can’t keep going like this, Anna, I _can’t_. It’s this or—” he trailed off weakly, a sudden wetness in his eyes pinching something low in her gut, “if I don’t—I’ll be one of them. _Help me_. Please.”

            “I don’t know if I can.”

            He opened his mouth, as though to say something more, but immediately withdrew, staggering backwards in the mud. A shadow crept around the corner, boots squelching in the mud, and she righted herself the best she could. “Eyes open. I’ll wait if I can.”

            “Do what you have to.”

            “ _Anna_ ,” she’d expected it to be John that rounded the corner, but her heart tightened when she saw it was _Jacob_. He crossed the distance to them with ease, but there was a staunch disappointment in his eyes, and for a moment she worried that he’d overheard Staci’s whispered heresies, but he simply gripped her by the shoulder, squeezing down so tightly she could feel the grind of bone in the socket. “Get back to the truck, peaches.”

            “Yes, sir.” Staci cast her a final, lingering glance before he slipped away.

             “Walk with me.” It wasn’t a question, but rather a demand, the gruffness of him both familiar and disconcerting as he stepped around her, through the mud and onto a damp path cut into the snow. As always, it was difficult to deny him, and she set off in his wake, looking back to the church for a hint of John or Joseph, but they must’ve been trapped inside, still hissing at each other.  

            They walked in silence away from the chapel, making a beeline through the woods for the water’s edge. It was muddy and murky, the frost that had inched out across the water still shiny as ever, but cracking and wearing, opening up to let the rush of water through. Jacob waited patiently for her to step beside him before he chose to speak. “How’s the valley?”

            “Cold.”

            “And John?”

            _Needy_. “As welcoming as ever.” She grimaced at him, arms folded over her chest to block out the whispering cold that blew in off the water. It glowed with the midmorning light, reflecting the sun like flame through a mirror. “St. Francis’?”

            “Unusually quiet.” He said, and for a moment they lingered in the silence, just them and the water, the croon of deer whistling across the lake. Even the hustle of the crowd still stirring outside of the church didn’t seem to reach them, but she didn’t mind the quiet. With him, it felt _right_ , if not entirely necessary. Jacob said more without saying anything at all.

            He picked at his fingers, tweezing loose skin between his nails, evidently weighing the benefits of tearing it off or letting it continue to hang. Part of her wanted to reach out to him, to rest a hand over his, to fold herself into his side, to _take_ any comfort he was willing to give, but she doubted he would give it. They were too exposed, and there were _other_ factors to consider. What if John saw? Would he be angry with her? _Yes_ , almost undoubtably so, but what were they? Their— _relationship_ was hardly standard, but she did not owe him anything, yet a movement toward Jacob felt like a betrayal toward John.

            On the other hand, had she not betrayed the former by sleeping with the latter? Did it even matter? She supposed it did. Though her feelings toward each brother were _irrational_ , they were present, and growing more difficult to ignore with every passing day.

            Jacob turned to her in that moment, his eyes half lidded as he studied her, a withdrawn sort of curiosity eating away at his gaze, before he asked: “do you enjoy fucking my brother?”’

            “I’m sorry?” Anna’s eyebrows shot upwards, more out of surprise than anything else, retreating from him by a step or two as he turned to look at her, brow wrinkled as he cocked an eyebrow.

            “John’s got a big mouth.” He said it rather matter of factly, but while Anna had begun to look for a reason to flee, for anything to excuse herself, Jacob carried on, evidently unperturbed by the nature of their conversation. If anything, he actually seemed at ease. “You didn’t think he’d keep it to himself, did you? And waste the opportunity to brag about how he’d had the fearsome deputy? You aren’t that thick, Anna. Use your head.”

            “I—he told you?” Words came slowly to her, as though she’d only just learnt how to speak, parsing them out through trembling lips as she stared at him, too dumbfounded to look anywhere else.

            “I only had to ask once before he was fucking _gushing_ about it.” He shrugged. “And it’s not like your face is doing you any favors.” He tapped her chin lightly. “Coulda told me that’s why you wanted to stay in Holland Valley. I wouldn’t’ve been offended.” He might’ve said it, but the broken timber of his voice said otherwise. _Something_ in him hurt, or maybe she was projecting.  

            “I didn’t make any promises.” She bit back, the rise of her shoulders belying the rising flush in her cheeks, burning bright and rosy. “And neither did you, for that matter.”

            “Should I have bent you over my desk, then?” He growled. “Would that’ve made things _clearer_?”

            _Yes_. “No.” She brushed a finger against the back of his hand, searching for a reaction, and earning nothing in return. “I’m sorry if—”

            “ _No_.” He shook his head, the bitter edge of a laugh crawling up through his throat. Mirth never sounded anything but painful on his tongue. “ _No_. You aren’t sorry. I see how you _are_ , how you _hunker_ in his shadow. You’d be clinging to his coattails if you could.”

            “You were _gone_.”

            “You never asked for me.” He took a step toward her, and she shuffled backwards, her skull thudding dully against the width of a tree, hands gripping it loosely for balance. “I _told_ you that I would come. I _swore_ it, and yet you betrayed my trust—"

            “ _You_ feel betrayed?” It shouldn’t’ve been laughable, but she had a hard time keeping herself together at this point. He’d drawn her out, _isolated_ her to soliloquize about how she had never called him.

            “ _Yes_.” He didn’t shout it. He didn’t have to, but his for a moment the word lingered, echoing so loudly off the trees that it shuddered across the lake, and he recoiled from it, flinching backwards through the mud as though she’d struck him, but she’d barely moved from the tree, her hands still tight in its bark, nails dug deep. “Everything that you are is _owed_ to me. _I_ took away your fear and your weakness, _I_ made you stronger, Anna. You are _alive_ today because I _allow_ it.”

            “And I’m supposed to be thankful for such mercy?” She couldn’t help the tremble in her voice, the sharp rise of her breath as she swallowed back tears. They were misplaced, unnecessary in this conversation, but she could not help them. In John, her weeping would’ve inspired his tenderness, it would’ve drawn him to her like a moth to flame, but with Jacob it only served to push him away. “You _people,_ ” she spoke without meaning to, but there was nothing that could be done to stop it. Something in her had _broke_ , a tightening pain in the core of her chest, it shattered at the arrogance of him. “You _beat_ me, you— _starved_ me, locked me away in windowless rooms, deprived me of any _human_ —”

            “It was _necessary._ ” He spat back. “You were _strong_ , but when he took you, he made you _weak_ , filled your head with all these— _delusions_.” He jabbed at her roughly, his finger pressing deep into her shoulder, the twist of a blunt nail digging in through her shirt, keeping her pinned loosely against the tree. “Joseph wasn’t wrong. You were meant to be here, but not for him, for either of them. They ruin you, all that you could be.”

            “They’re your brothers.”

            “And I love ‘em, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t _fuckin_ ’ stupid.” A hand was on her face, gruff and broad, the scratch of scars and callouses dragging dryly over her hot, flushed cheek. It was rage that brought color to her face, the suffocating realization of what they had _done_ to her. What they had _made_ her. So complacent, so _eager_ to please. “I never should’ve let them take you.” He said it so softly, as though speaking to a lover, and lovers they looked, Jacob craned over her, his back to the rising sun, one hand now cupping her jaw, the other on her ribs, squeezing so tightly that she could barely breathe.

            Beneath him, she _wanted_ to feel small, to feel protected, but she only felt _fear_ , welling up in her throat to spill down her spine, settling into her bones in a feverish flame. She needed to get away from him. Needed to _run_. From all of them. Staci had been right. She hadn’t wanted to leave, she’d been _okay_ with what they’d done, but now—it was like waking up, stirring out of a nightmare to realize she’d never left it. They’d convinced her that _this_ was okay, but it wasn’t. None of it was. No amount of softness would ever undo what John had _beaten_ into her bones, no amount of cooing and soothing would remove the scars that he’d etched into her flesh, and there was nothing Jacob could say that would heal the hunger in her belly, the _weeks_ he’d made her go without, the months he’d drowned her in darkness.  

            “You’re hurting me.” She grit, squirming back, away from him, but there was no more distance to be found between them. His knee was against her, asking her thighs to part, his gaze thick, eyes lidded. It would be easy to let her head fall back, for her chin to jut up and her throat to open for him, and she _wanted_ it. How lovely it would feel to have his lips upon her, to suffer the sharpness of his teeth in her jugular, to gasp and whine against him, but _easy_ was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

            “Come home,” he spoke it gently, the closest to a plea he could manage, the scent of the woods on his breath, tobacco and gunpowder rising from his coat, “come back to me. We can still make this right. _I can help you_.”

            “ _No_.”

            He sucked in a breath, the scratch of his mustache grating against her upper lip, and she felt the wetness of his mouth, the heat of his tongue as he forced himself against her, closing any modicum of space left between them with a sharp _tug_ , but he paused before he could make landfall, his grip relaxing as his head shot upwards, the sound of something _thunderous_ clattering through the woods. A _bang_ unlike any she’d ever heard before, like a car backfiring, but escalated a thousand times, and her ears _rang_ with the echo of it.

            Before her, Jacob had gone stock still, his eyes narrowed and sharp as he stared over her shoulder, a wolf on the hunt just waiting for his prey to make a move. She wondered if his ears were ringing too, if he heard nothing but the thundering of his heart, but then there was something else— _shrieking_ , not from her, and certainly not from him, but from the compound, a rising chorus of voices billowing out from the direction they’d come, that and a steadily rising crackling.        

            “ _Shit_.” He released her with little grace, and she slumped for a moment, barely able to find her footing before he was tugging her along, his pace twice that of hers. “Head on a swivel, stay close to me.”

            Together they wove through the trees, making their way back to the congregation, and it dawned upon Anna only when the scent of smoking wood filled her lungs that the church was on fire. Smoke poured out of the steeple as though it were a chimney, a black sooty mess spilling into the sky. It’d gone up like tinder, growing more and more aggravated with every minute they spent hurrying toward it. Jacob widened their path, and she followed suit, but her eyes were fixed upon the church, crackling away into dust at her very feet.

            A crowd had gathered at in it’s shadow, watching with wide eyes as the flames rose to the heavens, scraping the sky in jostling joy. Someone was crying, another bellowing, but many stood silent and still, their faces drawn in disbelief as the seat of their faith was reduced to ashes. It was but a momentary pause before they turned to action, scattering across the compound in droves in an attempt to quench the flames, but it’d grown too intense too quickly. It wasn’t a mistake, it wasn’t _providence_ , nor an act of God, but one of man. A _sign_.

            In the parting waves of bodies, she saw John, pulling Joseph back from the fire, whose eyes had turned to the sky with an incredulous sort of pleading, his lips moving only slightly, as though actively questioning God, and knowing Joseph, the idea wasn’t too farfetched.

            John barked orders, directing the fervent faithful away from the fire, clutching pails of water as though that would help to slow the burn, turning them to the trees, instead. “If they catch, we’ll have a much bigger problem on our hands! Stop it from spreading, protect the trees!” And then his gaze fell to her, bouncing back between herself and Jacob a handful of times before asking: “where were you?”

            “What happened?” Jacob countered.

            “Gas can went up—didn’t see who did it, but I’ll take a gamble and say your _Eli’s_ gotten bold, Jacob. Still haven’t put him in his place, yet?” Jacob opened his mouth to snarl something back, but John spoke over him: “get her back to the Ranch. If they’re here, she isn’t safe.”

            “She’ll be better off at St. Francis’,” Jacob growled, “it’s better fortified, surrounded by Chosen, Eli wouldn’t _dare_ get near it, even if he _could_.”

            “But you’d have to take her right through his territory to get there, wouldn’t you?”

            Anna turned to Joseph as the other two Seeds grappled for some sort of imaginary dominance. She couldn’t be sure, but he seemed _gone_ , expression blank, eyes wide as he stared up into the heavens, still speaking in hushed and hallowed tones. It would’ve been comical, the heightening pitch of their arguing, their faces red with anger and heat, the rush of it pouring off of the church scorching her from the outside in, until the roof began to groan, and Jacob forced them back by a dozen steps.

            “Stay back, stay put.” He hissed, stepping off with John, the two of them tending to the warbling crowd of worshippers, delegating tasks among eager hands, and for a long moment, Anna watched as the church began to fold in on itself, the hole in the roof opening from a gash to a gaping wound. Joseph said nothing. His presence beside her like that of a shade, still muttering away to himself.

            It was hard to watch, but easier than she imagined it would be to look away, her eyes wandering the crowd as they set to work. The earth was still damp, and the world still dripping with oozing frost, and so she had a hard time believing that the fire would spread. If anything, it’d burn itself out before the surrounding woods were dry enough to hold a flame, but it was _encouraging_ to see them working together, the _Peggies_. They were indeed a family, and John and Jacob toiled among them, no longer dealing orders, but knee deep in the muck and mire.

            But then she saw _him_ , Staci, standing across from her, halfway to the tree line to the right of the church. He caught her eye for barely a moment. There was nothing in him that was readable. No hint of a lie or question, simply a passive insistence, and as quickly as she’d found him, he began to move, weaving a line around the church and into the trees, avoiding the water’s edge and making a press for the center the island. She looked to Joseph again, studied his face, watched the crinkle of his eyes, and for a fleeting second, she considered saying something— _goodbye_ , perhaps, but then she turned, and crossed through that vacancy, her heart in her throat as she followed in Staci’s shadow, moving as quickly she dared in his direction.

            For all she knew it was a trap. A trick to prove her loyalty, but she didn’t care. Not anymore.

            “The church!”

            Anna turned back just in time to see the steeple collapse in a cloud of smoke and ash, embers splattering the heavens like stars in the midst of a billowing black sickness that curled into the air, spreading out for miles to the east, chasing the wind to the Whitetails, and through the smoke eyes watched her. Joseph said nothing as she backed away, he simply watched, the stain of something _broken_ in his gaze, but the presence of a hand in hers tore her back to the task at hand.  

            “Rook,” Staci tugged on her hand with pleading insistence, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodbye, Staci. 
> 
> I love my soft boi. He deserves the world. Two things I want to apologize for; this chapter is real hecking long, it's also a little rushed. Normally I give myself more time to flesh out a chapter before I post it, but I really wanted to make sure this was done and up before I went on vacation. The next few chapters are already half written, so they should be easy to get up once I get home.
> 
> Also, just wanted to let ya'll know that the next few chapters are going to delve into some very uncomfortable themes. I just wanted to make sure I was giving you a heads up and fair warning in case you're not down to clown with situations that involve graphic physical violence & emotional manipulation. I will absolutely add additional tags & trigger warnings as necessary, and I'd be more than happy to chat with you about what goes down on my slightly dormant FC Tumblr (@findingbxlance) if you'd like to keep up with the story but aren't comfortable with the content (you can also stop by just to chat with me there, you'll never be bothering me, I swear!) 
> 
> Love ya'll <3 As always, thanks for reading & for all of your lovely support! Your comments & love make my day :)

            “ _Get up._ ”        

            Anna didn’t have the time or emotional capacity to work through her regrets, to question the logic of every decision she’d made in her life that had led her to this point as she dragged a sopping wet Staci Pratt out of the Moccasin River. He was heavier than he looked, even when his shirt clung to his ribs, the shine of his spine rocky and unsettling as he rolled onto his side, coughing up a lungful of fish and brine. The thought _stung_ her, but he looked _weak_ , feeble. She never should’ve left him, never should’ve _abandoned_ him, but those were thoughts for later, things she could compartmentalize until the time was right. She gave him a moment to breathe, puffing out clouds of vapor as she searched the shore for Peggies, but they were _alone_ , barring the distant deer who didn’t seem too perturbed by their intrusion.

            _Water_ hadn’t been a part of the plan. She’d half expected the Moccasin to still be frozen, but the bulk of it had melted, with what little ice remained crumpled beneath their weight with ease, giving way to insistent boots. They’d been lucky enough to avoid it on the way out of the compound, the bridge over Silver Lake had been empty, devoid of the usual patrols, undoubtably focused on dousing the still burning church, but the main roads were still dangerous, still teeming with Peggies, even on their holy day. The woods had _seemed_ safer until they’d had to cross the Moccasin. Most of it was shallow, especially so near to the delta, and Anna’d survived with damp pants and soaked socks, but Staci had slipped in his haste, tumbling into the frigid water only to emerge with a shuddering _howl_.

            “We gotta keep moving.” She panted, a grinding chill settling into her bones as she wrapped her hands around his arms, attemtping to tug him to his feet, but he was gasping for air, wheezing it out in painful groans. She didn’t have time to regret leaving her coat behind in the church, but she did anyways, even when she knew it’d been reduced to ashes. “Shelter first, rest later. If we stay like this, we’ll freeze to death.” He scrambled for a moment on the rocks, legs kicking in a weak effort to stand, and he grunted through an invisible pain, weaving to his feet like a corpse.

            She gave him a moment, a sliver of a second to catch his breath and regain his footing.

            “Good?”

            “Yeah.” He breathed. “Yeah, I’m good.”

            “Let’s keep moving.”

            Staci was not graceful, the limp in his leg was more pronounced than ever as they waded around the edge of the delta, making way in the direction of what Anna _hoped_ was the Breakthrough Camp. She fought down the shivers, bit back the cold in the efforts of keeping a level head, all while her brain itched and every gear cranked along to try and settle down on a plan. There were so few places left for them to turn. They couldn’t go _South_ , that’d take them too close to Joseph, but going North would just as likely get them killed. How long would it be until Jacob had the Chosen on their backs? How long until the wolves caught their scent, and then what would they do?

            “Can I ask what your plan was?” She grit through her teeth, glancing back at Staci who was looking behind them, his attention evidently drawn to the still thickening column of smoke rising from the compound. “And who did _that_?” _Eli?_ Maybe Dutch? But that seemed far less certain. He’d rarely left his island to begin with, she couldn’t imagine that much had changed since she’d been—for lack of a better word—taken.  

            “Whitetails.” Staci spat, his attention snapping to her, his voice low and shaking as he rattled out the words, arms tucked tight across his chest, cheeks burning bright in the cold. “They’ll meet us in the mountains. Hunter’s Pass, near Showshoe Lake.”

            “ _Jesus,_ ”

            “I _know_ , but the more distance we put between ourselves and the St. Francis’ the better.” He reassured through chattering teeth. “Jacob’ll be trying to call us home. Further we are, easier it’ll be to—” he paused, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, “put it off.”

            He didn’t have to say much more than that.

            Breakthrough Camp wasn’t _empty_ , Judges still paced in the cages that littered the shores, whining for their masters, but the Peggies had gone, no doubt to join their brothers and sisters at the compound. Despite this, Anna _knew_ that time was slowly stacking against them. They’d have an hour, maybe more, of brevity to exploit before the Peggies were after them. In what capacity, she couldn’t guess, but she remembered _Faith_ , the doggedness with which she’d sent her angels after her, the convoys that’d trailed her for weeks on end until Anna’d— _well_ , resolved the situation. But this felt _different_. It wasn’t an escape it was an obligation. She _needed_ to try. If she didn’t—if she didn’t—

            “Heads up.” Staci tossed her a pair of pants, the legs whipping her in the face, and she choked out a grunt, too lost in her own head to realize they’d moved inside the main cabin. “You alright?” He whispered, his voice low and grating against the dusty floor as he shed his wet clothes, dropping them like they were _diseased_ off to the side.

            “I think so.”

            “I _know_ it can’t’ve been easy to—” he paused to right his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, “from what I’ve _heard_ , John’s a real piece of work.” He shot her a curious glance, digging for something deeper, but there was _worry_ in him too. Maybe he wondered the same of her as she did of him, if she was just part of an elaborate plan set into motion by Jacob to beat him down again, if her compliance with him was just another way to make him feel _weak_ when the world came out from beneath his feet. “Sorry, shouldn’t’ve said that.”

            “ _No_ ,” she tried to seem reassuring, but it just came off as loud and uncertain, her voice clanging off the empty cabin walls, “it just feels so— _strange_. I never thought—y’know, I never imagined—”

            “I get it.” He nodded his head, kicking on fresh pants as she undid her belt, attempting, with little success, not to stare at the fresh scars that seemed to cover every inch of his body as they dressed. _Teeth_ _marks_ , the round, moony half crescents of _wolves_ dug deep into his calves, a deep maroon bruise on his thigh, bleeding yellow up toward his hip. He looked like _bait_. Something desperate in her wanted to reach out, wanted to _touch_ , but it wouldn’t be right. Not _now_. They didn’t have time.  

            “Ready?” She asked, notching her belt tight, and he nodded his head, fixing her with a weary grimace before they set off.

            Peggie clothes didn’t fit well, they stank of dust and storage lockers, but they were warm _,_ and they were dry _,_ which was more than Anna could ask for. The Whitetails were still littered with snow, it clung to the trees and in mounds at the roadsides, but the further they pressed into the woods, the shallower it became, choosing to cling to the trees instead of the ground, opening up in wide patches of brown, mucky vacancy, filled to the brim with reddend pine needles. It all _dripped_ , weeping melting slush onto their heads, making the few roads they did dare to cross slick and wet with half formed ice. It slowed their progress, made walking uphill a bitch and a half, but Staci didn’t complain, and neither did she. If anything, they said very little to each other, the only sounds between them that of their breathing, flooding the woods with little white clouds that curled behind them in their wake.

            It felt _familiar_ , to be trudging through the woods in search of _help_. That’s what she’d been doing when she’d been with them, the _Resistance_ , rallying bodies for a cause she’d only half understood, but had seemed righteous at the time. She let Staci lead for the most part, trusting his judgment the best that she could as they wove through the trees, taking longer detours than she would’ve liked to avoid steep cliff faces and impossible rises. They were near water, she could hear the trickle of something through the trees, could catch the glint of the water every once and awhile as they meandered ever further northward. He’d always known the woods better than her, but he’d been _born_ in Hope County, he’d spent his entire life in the trees, she’d been so new to it when they’d met.

            “You look so different.” It was an offhand comment, whispered between the trees, but it caught her off guard nonetheless, the glint of his eyes uncertain as he watched her, having paused a few feet ahead to catch his breath. “I almost didn’t think it was you, sittin’ next to John. Your hairs gotten so long.” He was one to talk, she’d never seen him so _shaggy_.

            “What gave me away?”

            “Your face.” He shrugged. “You’ve always looked _worried_.”

            She grimaced weakly, the dry cant of her lips more painful than mirthful. “Thank you.” She said, and though he’d begun to walk again, he turned to look at her, his eyebrows peaked.

            “For what?”

            “Coming back for me.”

            Weakness stole his gaze, a faint softening around the corners of his eyes, but he shook his head, lips pulling tight; “not yet. When we get out of this _shithole_ , then you can thank me.”

            Anna was willing to let it go, but _something_ caught her ear, the _hum_ of an engine, something distant crawling up the mountains, a steady whistling echoing out through the trees. She would’ve asked him if he heard it, but Staci’s eyes were already on the horizon, his chin tipped back as though that’d help him hear better. He was off before she could get her bearings, tearing into the woods at a speed that _denied_ his ever-present limp, and she followed with all the grace of a spooked deer, crashing after him through the trees, head bowed to avoid the _whip_ and sting of undergrowth.

            Peggie _beige_ wasn’t exactly a striking color, but through evergreen pine it stuck out like a sore thumb. _Helicopters_ , another stick in their spokes, something she hadn’t factored into her plans, and something they certainly couldn’t outrun. The trees would offer some coverage, but _some_ wasn’t enough.

            They sounded like a herd of wild beasts, though it was just the two of them, sprinting through the woods as fast as their legs could carry them, dodging fallen trees and thick piles of snow, doing their best to keep together, but Staci was faster than she remembered, and her lungs ached for the length of his legs. It didn’t help that they were going uphill, and that the woods very quickly seemed to be thinning, a steep rockface looming directly ahead of them set aside a jagged ridge. She tried not to look back, not to watch as their doom descended upon them, but a quick glance back all but solidified her fears. They were running out of cover, out of time, and the Peggies were _right_ behind them. Arms pumping, her heart in her throat, cheeks aflame with the sharpness of wind, she made to pull left, put Staci yanked her in the opposite direction, his nails dug deep into her upper arm, biting through the flesh.  

            “ _Cabin_.” He gasped, dragging her up a low slope, and her thighs strained from the effort, boots rubbing raw against her ankles, and sure enough, he was _right_. It looked half beat to hell, its windows blown wide, the roof half collapsed, it’s walls riddled with bullet holes, but shelter was shelter, and they didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

            Crunching through glass and over toppled furniture, Anna flattened herself against the cabin floor, trying her damndest to sink into the wood as Staci flopped down beside her, his hand clenched over hers. She held her breath as they waited, her head turned to the side, staring at the baseboard as the helicopter drew closer and closer. It seemed to hang over them, pausing for a moment long enough to feel like an eternity, and Staci’s hand grew _tighter_ , the sweat of his palm damp against hers.

            She felt _alive_ , every inch of her body thrumming with the excitement of the chase, but in her stomach, snakes were writhing, snapping at her ribs. They’d been on the run for less than a day, and the Peggies had already caught up to them. It was sickening, _embarrassing._ In the past she’d put them off for days, kept them on the hunt for weeks, but now they knew exactly how to look for her.

            Slowly, the hum of the helicopter faded away, either rising higher or moving on, and Anna breathed in so sharply it _hurt_. Staci said nothing, but the pressure of his hand remained, the staggered staccato of his breath rushed and uncertain as they lie on the floor, silently sweating out their panic and adrenaline. Quietly, she got to her knees, pressing up off the ground in as steady a manner as she could manage, and she crawled to the nearest window, peering out over the dusty ledge to see the skies were clear, and they were alone. _For now_ , at least.

            “Chopper’s gone.” She whispered, voice low as she made her way back to Staci, who’d pushed himself half upright, face pale and sallow as he swallowed hard. “C’mon.” She offered him a hand as she rose to a crouch, gesturing for him to follow suit but he shook his head. “We gotta keep moving, that’s just the first of many.”

            “Maybe we should stop for the night.”

            “Can’t stop now, we’ve still got some daylight left to burn.”

            “It’ll be easier to move at night.” He argued. “I’m saying stop now, move up later. They won’t see us in the dark.”

            “It’ll also be colder, we aren’t prepared—”

            “We’ll survive.”

            She didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to bicker about the best way to go about their escape, but it’d be just as difficult to move during the night as it would during the day, and the more distance they put between themselves and the compound, the better. Perhaps she couldn’t see it anymore, but it she could still feel _Joseph_ , breathing down the back of her neck, his eyes through the smoke, watching so carefully as she left. It bothered her that he hadn’t said anything. That he hadn’t gone after her, not because she’d _hoped_ that he would, but everything she knew about him seemed to suggest that he should have.

            “What if we just went for the ridge?” A compromise, one she figured would satisfy him, but his expression said otherwise, his thick eyebrows pressed together, the flat line of his mouth stiff and unmoving. “We’re gonna need to tackle it sooner or later, and it’ll be easier to do it in the daylight.”

            “Not with goddamn air support.” He shot back, before quietly adding: “we’ll make it. Trust me.”

            _Trust me_. She wanted to, desperately, and so she nodded her head, swallowing her fear and her pride to give way to his judgement. Staci’d never led her wrong before, but that was then, and this was now, and she couldn’t help the faltering of her faith.

            They set about scouring the cabin for supplies, tearing apart anything that remained whole only to come up empty handed. She was crouched over a box full of what she imagined, or _hoped_ , were animal bones, when she heard Staci calling to her from behind the house. It wasn’t a panicked yelping, but too _loud_ given their current situation. When she poked her head out through a shattered, splintered hole in the window, he was standing beside a shed with its door half cracked open.

            “What?”

            “ _Bunker_.”

            She supposed a bunker was a blessing in disguise. One way in, one way out. It was an easy space to defend—for the most part, and there were _hundreds_ of them scattered all around Hope County. If the Peggies were gonna start searching bunkers for them, it’d be a one in a million chance that they’d start with this one. The closeness of the walls still bothered her, the lowness of the ceiling she still found deeply unsettling, but this bunker was _larger_ than the one she’d inhabited with Jacob, its cramped spaces expanded into multiple rooms. It wasn’t exactly spacious, but it was _safe_ , and well stocked with non-perishables.

            They slept in shifts, Anna taking the first and Staci the second, but whatever rest she’d managed to snag hadn’t exactly been peaceful. She’d done little more than close her eyes and listen to his breathing, the stilted cadence of it as he’d picked through cabinets and boxes, shuffling through years of prep work to dig out anything that would prove useful to them.

            He lie across from her in a bowed, rattled looking cot, turned onto his side, his arms crossed over his chest. If he was asleep, he was as sound as the dead, the only proof of his life the small mutters he made in the dark, whimpering about weakness. Jacob had _changed_ him, but she was one to talk. She could only imagine what _he_ saw in her, how deeply the scars of their affection ran. She wasn’t the same, not anymore, she could barely remember the person she had been when she’d come to Hope County, and as much as it _pained_ her, she couldn’t reconcile whether or not that was a bad thing.

              In her hands she twisted a radio, clicking through empty, static riddled stations, hoping to pick up on _something_ , anything, but nothing came through, not even the Peggies. Part of her wondered if it was the bunker, blocking anything from coming in or going out, but she had an inclining that radio silence was the work of _Jacob_. The Whitetails had always been silent under his thumb.

            It didn’t strike her that Staci was watching her until he spoke, hazel eyes studying her calloused hands as they worked at the knobs, twisting and turning to fruitless results. “Anything?”

            “No,” she grimaced across at him, “nothing.” She wanted to throw it, but settled for dropping it into the crossed intersection of her legs. There might still be some use for it, even if no one was talking. She met his gaze for a moment before looking away, pretending to be interested in the dirt beneath her nails as she spoke. “What happened while we— _I_ was gone?”

            Staci sucked in a breath and held it, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him turn onto his back, face screwed up in concentration. “Eli’s still goin’,” he exhaled sharply, “bleeding bodies, but hanging on. I know the Henbane’s been retaken. Jacob oversaw that. Don’t know where Whitehorse is, but he wasn’t among the dead.”

            “What about Hudson?”

            “She was with John, wasn’t she?” He asked, and she looked to him. “Wouldn’t you know?”

            “I—” she paused, face screwed up in thought before quietly admitting, “I never asked.”

            Staci shifted slightly, rolling himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot, fixing her with the kindest of gazes he’d ever given her. “We’ll come back for them.”

            She wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t that she doubted Whitehorse or Hudson, their strength was _beyond_ her, but the Seeds were determined forces of nature. If they hadn’t bent them to fit their mold by now, then she had no doubt as to what had become of them, even if it hurt her heart to consider. Staci rose to his feet like a willow, swaying for a moment before he crossed the little space that remained between them, pulling her off the cot and into a weak, but sturdy _hug_.

            He smelled like _sweat_ , like sickness and death, but she didn’t care. He held her awkwardly, as though he'd never done it before, but she wove around him tightly, her arms circling his ribs, and he fell into her, squeezing her against his chest. He felt like _home_ , like everything she’d forgotten, everything they’d left behind, a past that still lived above the surface of recollection but slipped deeper and deeper into the churning waves with every day that passed. There was nothing they could go back to, no real home to which they could return, nothing of the past still lived but each other, and she clung to him like he was the only thing that was real.

            There was nothing _romantic_ about the way they held one another. His was not the touch of a lover, her insides did not squirm for it, not when he panted against her neck, the rough scratch of his beard itchy against her prickling skin, his hands so tight upon her back she felt he would _break_ her. She wondered how long it had been since he’d been touched in a way that was _kind_ , that was _wanting_.

            They stood together for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s comfort, content to _breathe_ for the first time in months, but it was she who pulled away first, her hands on his face, squeezing tight.

            “Let’s get moving.”

            The world was dark when they emerged from the bunker, wrapped up in borrowed shirts and coats, stocked for what felt like days with canned and dried foods. Anna had taken the radio and latched it to her hip, but even outdoors it didn’t seem keen to work, popping and crackling as they started on the path away from the cabin, headed in the direction of the rock face. Beside it an uneasy ridge rose, too steep to climb head on, but easy enough to wind up, weaving back and forth from side to side. Someone had done it before them, their footprints dug deep into the dirt and snow, and they followed in the path they’d set, quietly making their way to the top.

            “How far are we from Snowshoe Lake?” She asked through panting breaths, her knees quaking from the effort of going uphill for so long. It helped that Staci was equally as out of breath, gasping into the night air, the bob and weave of his flashlight dancing over the ground.

            “Hour and a half, maybe more.”

 

           “And the Whitetails _will_ be there?”

            “That’s what they said.”

            “When’s the last time you heard from them?”

            “Right before it all went to _shit_.” He puffed. “They’ve been getting closer for weeks now. There’re dozens of them in Joseph’s congregation.”

            Much of their walk went quietly uninterrupted. The occasional helicopter would drift by lazily, floodlights scorching the mountainsides, but the night was on their side, and the Whitetails were rife with easily accessible cover. Road patrols were Anna’s main source of concern, and Jacob’s hunters, but they were either blessed, or incredibly lucky, to encounter few enough to scrape by them on their way North. It helped that they avoided the roads, spending the bulk of their time in the woods, scrambling, sometimes on hand and knee, over stone and snow to get to Snowshoe Lake. It sat in a valley at the very peaks of the Whitetails, surrounded by sharp rises and ledges, _secluded_ for the most part from Jacob’s men, and like a beacon it rose into view, the smoothness of the water reflecting the stars like fireworks.

            In the tree line they sat, huddled together in the dark, watching the water for— _anything_ , but constantly coming up empty. They were alone beside the water, despite the occasional night creature rummaging through the deadened underbrush, searching for sustenance in a world still clinging to winter. She could feel it in her bones, the pinch of winter beneath every layer of clothing she’d donned. Even her coat, despite its thickness, did little to keep out the cold, but it was her _legs_ that hurt the most, prickly and numb as she crouched beside him, her arms tucked around her waist to conserve _some_ heat.

            “Staci—” she began, but he hushed her down, pointing with a shaking hand across the water. A flash, glinting across the water, and then another, then two more, too much to be circumstance. He fumbled for a moment with his flashlight, before clicking it on and off, a flash and then three more in quick succession, blinking in quiet response.

            “Come on.” He breathed, and she helped him stand as she rose to her feet. In a hobbling mess they abandoned their nest, making their way around the edge of the lake in search of the light, walking as quickly as their fatigued legs would let them. At this point, Anna was running on canned peaches and jerky, and it all seemed like a _dream_. That could’ve been because she was only half lucid, sleep deprivation and hunger catching up with her, or perhaps it really _was_ Eli Palmer waiting for them halfway down the shore, his hand raised in greeting. “Eli.” Staci said his name like it was a prayer, speeding up his pace, but the glint of headlights upon the western ridge sent him scuttling backwards.

            They looked like stars, dancing over the tops of the mountains, bobbing back and forth from side to side, but the rush of an engine, the steady whipping of wind told them otherwise, and as quickly as they had come, Anna and Staci were backpedaling, turning away from Eli toward the other side of the lake. Trucks crawled over the ridge, clambering down through the trees, headlights burning bright lines across the water, catching them in full strength, leaving Anna seeing spots, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see Eli rushing back along the other shore, hollering _something_ about a set up.

            Jacob had _known_ , he must’ve, but he’d played them for time, made them _believe_ they’d gotten away, just to snatch them back up again. That was what he did, let you taste power just to realize how powerless you really were, but they still had a chance. They weren’t routed, the other side of the lake was still open, devoid of Peggies and Whitetails alike, and they booked it up the opposite ridge, running as fast as their lungs would allow. It helped now that her legs were half numb, frozen stiff by the cold, but it wouldn't last for long, and she knew it. She half pulled Staci up the ridge, her arm hooked with his as they scrambled for footing in the muck and mire.

            They stumbled to the top, clinging to one another. The slope down was too steep to crawl. Short, ending in a small precipice before gently rolling into a valley, but they wouldn’t make it on time if they went by foot. _Someone_ was calling her name, speaking it faintly, not in her ear, but _close_. Upon the ridge they were illuminated, their backs to their pursuers, her hair wild and whipping in the torrid wind, hand wrapped tightly around Staci’s. They needed to _leap_ , there were no two ways about it now, they’d run themselves into a corner, and if they didn’t jump—they’d be _caught_.

            “ _Anna,_ ” Joseph. She knew his voice better than her own these days. He was _speaking_ to her, calling out her name from her hip, and she unhooked the radio, holding it up to her ear to hear it better over the rushing of wind and pounding of blood, her head crooked over her shoulder to stare behind them. “This goes too _far_.” He spoke to her as though he was chastising her, his voice not unperturbed, but calm, even when anger simmered beneath. “I know what you’re doing, I know that you _think_ you’re helping, that you’re doing what’s _right_ , but it’s not. You only prolong his sins,” he paused, “and your own.” She wondered if he was above her, looking down as she turned back to the darkness, weighing out her options. “Come back to me. _Come home_. We can make this right.”

            Staci was tugging on her hand, his insistence growing with every second they spent perched upon the abyss. She could go back. She could turn around and offer herself up in repentance, and perhaps Joseph would accept it, but would it be worth it? If she went back, if she gave herself away completely, what would become of her? With a sharp _yank_ she pulled on Staci’s hand, and they tumbled over the ledge rolling over rock and stone until they came to a slow pause upon the lower ledge, her brain swimming in her skull, heart in her throat.

            She would’ve screamed if the air hadn’t been knocked out of her lungs, and so she settled for a surprised, gasping sort of panting, flopping onto her back with all the grace of a newborn deer. She could feel Staci beside her, groaning into rock, his breath high pitched and whining, but he was _alive_ and so was she. Stirring with a newfound sort of fervor, Anna dragged herself to her feel, scrambling, kicking herself to standing, bowing only for a moment to help Staci rise. It was moments before the glint of headlights bloomed over the ridge, beating down upon them with unpleasant precision.

            In a staggering, stumbling mess they made their way down the hill, growing in speed with every moment they spent standing, the rush of adrenaline keeping them upright and conscious, but Anna knew it wouldn’t last forever, so she made the best of it while she could. The lower in elevation they went, the thicker the tree cover grew, and they wove in and out of sight of the helicopters, having effectively left the convoy behind at the lake. If the drop had been sharp for them, it would’ve been deadly for a truck. They hooked left and right, wheezing out breaths, panting and gasping as they went, the radio still clutched in Anna’s hand as they dug deeper into the woods. 

            Eventually, the helicopters let up, drifting south while they continued north, keeping to the foothills as they scrambled through the dark. They ran for what felt like hours, pausing only long enough to catch their breath and then taking off again, the forest alight with the sound of their footfalls and the clattering jangling of their backpacks. They ran until her legs ached, and her lungs burned for the feel of oxygen, until her eyes felt like they would pop out of her skull, and the first fingers of dawn began to break the sky, painting Hope County in rosy shades of pink and red.

            It was only when Staci demanded it that she stopped, breathing so hard she could feel every gap in her ribs, the confines of her lungs suddenly not big enough to hold all the oxygen she do desperately needed. Staci had slumped to the ground, his back against a pine, chin tilted backwards, mouth open in loud, gasping breaths, his cheeks burning redder than the morning sky. The forest echoed with their breathing, the hopelessness of it, the whispered curses Anna managed to sneak between each, pained inhalation, and the quiet stirring of the world as it shuddered awake, birds chirping quietly above their heads.

            “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” He gasped. “They _fucking_ knew, Rook. They _knew_. The Whitetails were our best shot out of here, and _now_ , who knows—if Jacob gets his hands on them, they’re _dead._ ”

            “We’ll find another way.”

            “There’s nothing. No way out, the roads are all closed, the tunnels are fucking _gone_.” He snapped, head lolling weakly as he gestured broadly, hands moving evidently without his mental consent. “No way in, no way out, we’re stuck here until they find us, and then—then we’ll wish we were dead.”

            She wanted to _scream_ , and she would have, if not for the worried warbling of Staci behind her. He didn’t need her panic, he didn’t need her fear, and so she swallowed it down. They were _still_ being followed, and no amount of mincing words at a collapsed plan would change that. They’d have to find another way, another path out of Hope County. If they left on foot, over the ridges of the mountains and into the wilds beyond, they’d be dead in weeks, if not _days_ snatched up by the bears and the wolves. But the main roads grew worse and _worse_ with every minute they spent on the run.

            There had to be _something_ , there was always _something_.

            “The railway.” She gasped. “Staci— _the railway_.”

            He shook his head, _fear_ blooming in his eyes. “That’ll put us—it’d be too close to Jacob. He’s got cameras all over those woods, Anna, he’d _know_.”

            “We have to try.”

            That wasn’t enough for him, his eyes still glistened with fear, but time was working against them. They didn’t have the luxury of hashing out a better plan, it was this or nothing, and Staci seemed to _know_ that as he staggered to his feet, leaning upon the tree for support, and then eventually upon her, and she opened herself to him all hands and arms attempting to keep him upright. Leaning on each other for support, they continued to make their way through the woods, headed east and downhill, pressing South. It’d be a day’s hike to the rail tunnel, and much longer if they were actively being hunted. A car would make life easier, but also _much_ more dangerous. They were better off on foot, but Anna doubted she’d make it that far. The aches of their fall were beginning to set in, all the little _chips_ and bumps she’d hit on the way down had nestled like knives into her bones, peeling apart her muscles to settle in amongst her nerves, and Staci didn’t seem much better off.

            It was midday by the time they found a place to stop, a hunting cabin lodged into the shadow of the mountains. Like most cabins this time of year, and post Seeds, it was abandoned, but in significantly better shape than any of the others they’d come across. Most had been burnt, charred to bits, or blown apart, rendered useless most likely by Jacob’s forces. They settled in amongst the dust and decay, leaving their damp clothes to dry on the backs of old skinning racks. Anna stoked a fire in the soot caked fireplace as Staci scoured the cabin for a gun, a _weapon_ of any sort, turning up a somewhat rusted rifle and a half-filled box of ammo from beneath the grimy bed.

            “It’ll do.” She tried to smile, to seem optimistic, but Staci had tanked. Any _joy_ that had existed within him at the prospect of escape had died on that ridge.

            They sat together in front of the fireplace, half dressed, side by side, picking at their rehydrated feasts, no more lively than the grave. Linking up with the Whitetails had been a catastrophic _failure_. The only sure thing they’d had just went up in flames, and now they were _adrift_ , guideless. The rail tunnel was an _option_ , but it was entirely uncertain. The Seeds had blown all the other ones to hell the day this had all begun, and so Anna’s hopes were, admittedly, quite low.

            “I remember the first time I saw you.” Staci spoke so softly she could barely make out the words. It didn’t matter that he sat beside her, that he was so close she could feel the heat of his breath, he spoke as though he was in a dream, the drained warble of his voice so thickly _exhausted_ that it only _just_ rose above the crackle of the fire. For a moment she stared at him, her confusion thick on her face, but the crinkle of a smile in his eyes forced her to relax, her head cocked as he continued to speak: “Hudson wouldn’t shut up about you, said she’d dug up a real ringer—then you walked through the front door and _ate shit_.”

            “You saw that?”

            “Everyone saw that.” He croaked out a laugh. “First day on the job and you almost broke your goddamn neck. And then— _oh fuck_ , our first assignment together, do you remember that?” He tapped her shoulder, speaking louder, babbling on into the dust, his cheeks straining with the effort of sustaining a smile, but it encouraged something in her, a tightness in her chest as she grinned, eyes crinkling at the edges, an embarrassed flush creeping up her neck.

            “You remember that? _Christ_ , I was hoping you’d forgotten—”

            “I thought you were fucking _dead_. Cow kicked you and you went down like a sack of bricks.” He was tearing up, the wheeze of laughter eeping out through his lips in strangled bursts and she followed suit, curling into a fit of giggles. “I turned my back on you for one second and you were halfway across the _yard_.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, the pitch of his laughter near painful, but she’d never heard anything so _joyful_. “Oh _Jesus_ ,” he wheezed, a hand over his heart as he leaned forward, elbows pressed into his knees, choking out breath, “you drove me fucking insane. Every time I’d look away, you’d have your hands in _something_ they weren’t mean to be in.”

            “Sure, _I_ drove _you_ insane, but how many times did I have to cover your ass?” She shook her head, shifting slightly to look at him betted, his eyes wet and glassy as he stared at her, his grin slowly slipping away, supplanted by something much softer, the quiet hum of recollection. “I’d spend all morning keeping Whitehorse busy, then you’d saunter in all _proud_ , like no one noticed you’d been missing.”

            For a long moment he said nothing at all, his smile faded to nothing, the gentle twist of his lips pulling flat. She heard him swallow, saw the tightened winding of his jaw as he parsed through soundless words, his mouth moving, but unspeaking. It was easy then to see the hollowness in his cheeks, the thinness that Jacob had wrought in him. He was so _fragile_ now, every bone sharp and pronounced, the circles beneath his eyes so deep she nearly saw the bone beneath them, and when he spoke it was with a weariness not normally present in someone so young.

            “I should’ve been better to you.”

            “ _Don’t_ —”

            “It’s true.” He swallowed thickly, the dampness in his eyes more pronounced than ever. “There you were, some— _outsider_ with no history and no family, no ties to the County, and Whitehorse took a shine to you like nothin’ else. I wanted to be jealous, wanted to _hate_ you, you didn’t know who we were, what we were facing, what the Peggies were like. But you tried so _damn_ hard.”

            “I had a good teacher.” She offered, a hand on his chest, palm flat against his heart, and he reached up to meet her, his fingers curled weakly over hers. “How much time did you waste trying to teach me how to operate that _damn_ helicopter?”

            “Good try, but I was shit.” He chuckled weakly.

            “You were at the range with me every other weekend—you and Hudson.”

            “That’s because she dragged me there with her. She wanted you to feel _welcome_ here. Who knew that we’d be leading you into this fucking mess?”

            “I— _Staci_ ,” she wanted to punch him, but settled on a sharp shove, and his head lolled to the side, studying her with a distant vacancy. The void remained, that broad emptiness within his eyes, a weight she could not lift, but there was more warmth in him now, a subtle curling of recollection. She knew those eyes, not as well as she’d like, but she _knew_ them all the same. “I’m an only child, so I can’t speak from experience, but—I imagine that you and Hudson—I suppose that’s what it’s like to have siblings, yeah?”

            “Oh,” he inhaled sharply, his breath whistling through his teeth, the curl of his fingers tightening over hers, “you _sap_.”

            It would’ve been smarter to sleep in shifts, but Anna couldn’t bear it, and neither could he. In a heap before the fireplace, they collapsed, folded atop one another in the glow of the fire. If anyone were to look in upon them, they might’ve looked uncomfortable, bent up at odd angles, entwined in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but Anna had never been so at ease, her ear wedged up somewhere against his heart, her arm crossed over his, legs tangled up in a knot so tight it could snap _bone_ if they moved the wrong way, but it was _peaceful_ and it was _content_ , and they slept until the next dawn, curled up beside one another.

            When she woke, he was gone, detangled from her, and she was on her side, staring into the dimly glowing embers of the previous nights fire. His pack was still there, his clothes still drying on the rack, so he hadn’t _abandoned_ her, yet he was not _with_ her. Stumbling to her feet in a chorus of cracking bones and achy grunts, Anna searched the single room cabin for a moment, before poking her head outside to find him standing in the front yard, his hands on his hips as he studied a rusty mint green pickup truck. How they’d missed it on their way in, Anna did not know, but she’d gamble that coming down from an adrenaline rush was just as good at dampening senses as the initial rush was at heightening them.

            “It’s too dangerous.” She said, immediately regretting not announcing her presence as Staci whipped about, his head snapping backwards to stare at her as she approached. “Sorry.”

            “What, I suppose you want to walk all the way across the Whitetails with Jacob on our asses?” There was a tone of incredulity to his voice, a pained sort of disbelief as he spoke, eyeing her with something pleading blooming in his eyes. “Even if we weren’t already falling apart, he’d find us, Anna. Those woods are all tapped, cameras in every corner. He’ll know we’re coming. If we can get in quickly—maybe, we can throw him off.”

            “The Peggies will be all over us.”

            “We have to try.” It was an echo on his tongue, but compelling, nonetheless. This was their chance, and even if they didn’t make it, it had to count for something that they’d given it their all.

            Anna packed up while Staci searched the truck for keys. By the time she emerged, their packs in hand, the truck was up and running, and Staci had already strapped himself into the driver’s seat, hands clutching at the wheel as he waited. He was so _eager_ to go, so ready to leave, and she couldn’t blame him. She settled into the passenger’s seat beside him, the rifle crossed over her lap as they pulled away from the cabin, following the dirt road back to society. Beyond the grimy windows, the Whitetails whipped by, tall and scraggly against a mopey gray sky. It looked like _snow_ , or maybe rain clustered in the distance, but the heavens withheld as they wove through the mountain roads, climbing higher, and then lower with rumbling ease. The truck itself wasn’t—smooth, the steering grated every time Staci took a corner too tightly, and the body whined with every bump they hit, but it held itself together, for the most part, and so Anna tried not to complain too much.

            As he drove, she toyed with the radio, fiddling, once again, with its knobs, trying for anything that would land them a reading on the Whitetails, but coming up desperately short. They were on their own, or so it seemed, but Anna couldn’t shake Joseph’s voice, the plea he’d struck her with. _Come home._ It’d buried itself within her heart, the way he’d said those words, grated them against the speaker, urging her to return, to put down the past and enter the _future,_ but she didn’t have time to dwell on it, not in the face of an approaching roadblock.

            “ _Hang on_.” Staci did the opposite of what she would’ve intended, speeding up as they hurtled toward the row of Peggie beige trucks, hitting the orange and white _road closed_ sign with such force they both lurched forward in their seats, but Staci didn’t stop, if anything he _sped up_. Between her knees, Anna steadied the rifle, loading it with as steady hands as she could manage, the gentle lull of Peggie radio blaring down the road from behind them as a row of trucks came into view.

            “Try to keep it steady.” She shot him a grimace as she rolled down the window, unbuckling her seatbelt, and Staci returned her uncertainty, his lips pressed into a sharp, thin line.

            “Just don’t fall out.”

            She’d done this before, but that didn’t make it any easier. The first time had been a rush, leaned out of a car, hurling dynamite at bloodthirsty cultists all while Burke had cheered her on, but now it was different. They weren’t bloodthirsty, just _hurt_. Their guns weren’t raised, but _still_ she aimed at them. They were chasing her, _yes_ , threatening to ram her _, yes_ , but none of them had raised a hand to her. Not on the ridge, not in the helicopters, not _now_. Arm hooked over the doorframe, she aimed down, nailing her first shot and popping a tire wide open. She missed the next two, but struck the third, popping another tire, slowing down their trailing convoy.

            She couldn’t kill them. She didn’t want to. But she could slow them down. In her mind, it was a fair compromise, but Staci seemed less than impressed. “What’re you doing?! Aim for the drivers!”

            “We don’t have enough bullets!” She shot back, screaming over the whipping wind, hip aching as it pressed into the door. She was kneeling in the seat, arched over in a way that made her ribs hurt, but it was all she could manage at this point. “Taking out the tires slows them all down, we can’t be wasteful!”

            He wanted to argue, she could see it in his face, but they had enough on their hands.

            “Up ahead!” He yelped, a hand on her knee, gripping so tight she swore he broke skin. She turned in her seat just in time to see another roadblock fast approaching and threw herself back into the car, gun to her chest as they blew through it, whistling over what she knew for certain was the Moccasin River. They went on like this for what seemed like hours, breaking barricades and taking out tires. It wasn’t always successful, and by the time the rail tunnel was in sight, they’d grown quite the following, but they were far enough ahead to _make it_. The sun was on their horizon, urging them forward over the threshold to freedom, but Anna felt a lump in her throat, a steadily growing fear, a sickness in the pit of her belly. The road wound upwards, folding in on itself in ribbons as it climbed steadily upwards, and they turned off into the woods, bypassing the road and making a beeline for the railway.

Staci pulled into a clearing beside the ridge that housed the railroad, popping the brakes with enough force to send Anna forward in her seat, still clutching the rifle in her hands.

            “Why’d you stop?” She nearly shouted it, eyebrows raised in bewilderment as he hopped out of the car. The rail tunnel was above them, just atop the ridge, just a few feet out of reach and sight. There was one road left to take that'd bring them there, one more curve that'd send them to freedom, but he'd stopped short of perdition. “Staci—” she was so ready to go, so _ready_ to leave. She’d built it up in her head, her courage, her _strength_ , it was now or never, but he’d _stopped_ just shy of the gateway, his hands on his hips as he studied the car.

            “The bumper’s about to fall off. I _thought_ I felt it go loose. Give me a hand, we need to get it off, the railroad’ll knock this thing off in minutes, and we _don’t_ want to drive over it.” His cheeks were red, flushed either by excitement or anger as she pulled herself out of her seat and onto the ground, passing around the car to stand beside him. Sure, enough the bumper had come unhinged, dangling off the front of the truck by a few threads of deeply rusted metal, shedding orange flakes every time Staci nudged it. It croaked as it bounced, that sickening grind of metal on metal grating against her ears. “Take the other side, let’s get this done with _quick_.”      

            She followed his lead, leaning all of her weight onto the hanging bumper, bouncing it a few times before shoving down upon it. Staci’s end came undone with a _crack_ , but hers hung on, bouncing up back toward her and snapping down on her fingers. She yelped, hands flying up as she stepped backwards, tears burning in the corners of her eyes.

            “C’mon, one more push.” Staci was breathing heavily, talking through panting breaths, and she rejoined him on the still attached side, bouncing it easily before pressing down again, using the bulk of their weight to shove it down, and then— _then_ something _cracked_ , and the bumper came loose. She would’ve stumbled forward into the car if she hadn’t caught herself on the hood, hands grasping loosely for hold on the mint green surface. Together, they lifted the hunk of metal, and pulled it off to the side, depositing it next to a trickling creek. She brushed her hands off on her pants, breathing heavily for a moment as she looked up to the tunnel. She could see little beyond the entrance from where she stood, but it seemed endless, a dark void that bloomed into bright, sunny skies. The gray of the morning had passed, giving way to a golden midday, and perhaps that was a sign, a _message_ , but something still felt _wrong_ , something she could not place.

            Upon her hip, the radio crackled to life, loud enough to bring some pause in Staci as he tread back to the truck, his eyebrows raised as a slow, easy breathing gave life to stilted words. “Look at you two,” _Jacob_ , he nearly seethed the words, the utter _malice_ in his voice slinking out through the speaker in waves, sending shivers ricocheting down her spine, “thick as _thieves_ , ain’t ya? Y’know, there’s a reason why I kept you two apart.” He tsk’d at them, like they were children in need of a scolding, the sound thick on his tongue, and she could almost hear him shaking his head, the disappointment with which he regarded them almost palatable in the air. “You’re a volatile pair, too _reliant_ on one another. You feed each other’s stupidity. One of you thinks you’re _strong_ and the other follows suit, but you’ve strayed from your paths. You’ve forgotten _who you are_.”

            “Anna—”

            “You’ve made it far, further than anyone thought you would, and I’m impressed, but you’re _alone_ in those woods, and _the wolves are closing in_.”

            Staci snatched the radio from her hand, and before she could grab it back, he whipped it into the creek. Something _clanging_ gurgled out from the speaker, the sound of some great dying beast that shrieked and popped, or rather the battery frying, and then it sank.

            “ _Staci_ —”

            “Aren’t you tired of his fucking voice?”

            “That was our _only_ radio.”  

            “We’ll get another one.” He was circling the truck, checking the tires, the engine, ducking his head to study the dripping mess beneath, but he didn’t seem perturbed. “It’ll hold.” He sounded certain, but _fear_ still clung to his voice, a staggered uncertainty as he stared at her. “Time to go, Anna, get in.”

            “Staci,” she started slow, swallowing hard and Staci fixed her with an incredulous look, his mouth half open, lips parted in speech, but no words came, they didn’t have to. Before she could get the rest of it out, the woods were alive the sounds of Peggies.

            “ _Get in_.” He hissed, but she shook her head.

            “You have to go without me.” The words felt foreign, as though she herself was not speaking them, or that she did not have the strength in her bones to form them, but they fell from her tongue all the same, and Staci crumpled for it. “I’ll keep them off your back, give you as much time as I can. If I can get them to follow me back the way we came, you’ll have a straight shot out of the county. No one will be looking for you if they’re all looking at me.”

            “Don’t mess around, Anna, _get in_.” He snarled, but she was backing away, the slow shake of her head undermined by the welling tears in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks to gather in the dust at her feet. The roar of their pursuers grew closer, the puncturing whistle of shrieking tires whipping through the trees. They’d always had so little time, always rushing to an unforeseen precipice, but now they had to jump, only she couldn’t take the leap with him. Not this time.

            “I can’t go with you.”

            “Don’t say that.” He choked, taking three steps toward her for every inch she wandered back, reaching for her hands, but Anna could not be swayed. “You can’t stay here, you _have_ to come with me, Anna. _Please_.”

            “It’s not possible.” She spoke through tears, the knot in her belly pulling so tightly she felt as though she might be sick. “ _Leave_. Drive as far as you can, as fast as you can, put as much _distance_ between yourself and this place as possible, and don’t look back.” It was difficult to keep her voice steady, to speak without choking, but Staci didn’t seem to care despite all her simpering, his eyes set on hers, his expression torn and ruined, cheeks stained with rushing tears. “You can’t wait for me. Not this time.”

            “And what will you do? Go _back_?”

            She said nothing, but the silence spoke for her.

            “ _Anna_.” He said it so sharply, her name a whip on his tongue, his hands gripping her now near the elbows, keeping her close and in place, the gasping of his breath puffing against her cheeks as she twisted, afraid to look him in the eye, but similarly desperate to. “They’ll kill you. If it’s not this time, then it’ll be the next, and you _know_ it. You _can’t_ stay here, you can’t go back to them.”

            “But I _can’t_ leave either.” She tried to sound _strong_ , but it was an exercise in futility. There was so little of it left in her, but she would give it all to him if he would only listen. “They’re in my head, Staci,” _in my heart_ , “if I go with you—I wouldn’t be myself. That time has passed for me, but you can still make it. You can still run.”

            “ _Please_.” He whispered the word, his hands on hers, squeezing so tight she could feel the flex and strain of every muscle beneath his skin, but still she shook her head, ignoring the panicked pull in her belly, that strange coolness in her spine that shrieked at her to _run_. “I’m sorry.” He croaked, and she threw her arms around him, pulling him as close to her chest as she could bear.

            Staci returned the fervency of her embrace tenfold, her arms closed tightly around his neck, his wrapped around her ribs with such strength she could feel the anxious pitter patter of her heart echoing within. There was a wetness upon her cheek that did not belong, the warmth of his tears staining her lips as she turned her head, pressing a kiss into his burning flesh. If she had it her way, she would’ve stood with him forever, pulled around him like a shield, but she _knew_ he could not stay, and for every second that they delayed, the smaller his window grew.

            “Go.” She tried not to snap it, not to bite at him what very well could be the last words they would ever speak to one another as she pulled herself out of his arms, and he relinquished her with a terrible reluctance, his fingers trailing over her back, across her arms, hooking into her palms to keep her near even as she backed away. “ _Please_.”

            “I’m gonna miss you, Rookie.” He nearly sobbed it, choking on the words as he stepped back toward the truck. She tried to smile, tried to offer him some comfort as he clambered back into the driver’s seat. It brought her some solace, though she knew it was _selfish_ , to see him struggle with the door, to rap his knuckles upon the wheel, and pause for the softest of moments.

            It seemed like only yesterday that she would have given _anything_ to go with him, to put miles between herself and this place, the _Seeds_ , but there was nothing she could do for it now. She was too far gone, too _invested_ in them. She knew that now, that there was no home without them, even if it made her sick to think about it, to imagine _crawling_ back to them, and _oh_ they would make her _beg_ , but the present was not the time to worry about the future, not beneath the gaze of such _sad_ eyes.

            He cast her one final look, a mixture between something pleading, and something resolute, the _strong_ face of a person desperately clinging to reason, and then he pulled away.

            “Goodbye, Staci.” She lifted a hand as though to wave goodbye, but it hung in the air, still and lifeless as the truck rumbled to the end of the trail, and then jerked out of view, the steering _groaning_ as the wheels crooked to the left. Anna listened for him for as long as she could, for the sputter and putter of that _damned_ engine, but the trees swallowed it up as he took the trail up to the tunnel, and soon enough she was _alone_ again in the woods.

            For a moment she persisted, a willowy shadow in the golden grace of midday, her head lolled back to the study the croak and sway of the pines above her, the distant drifting of wispy clouds, perfectly white against a cerulean sky. Wetness glimmered upon her cheeks, diamonds upon her lashes, streaks of fresh skin cut open by rivers of tears, and she let them go for as long as she could bear, until the pressure in her throat superseded the need to _weep_ and the lilting high notes of Peggie radio broke over the ridge.

            Dropping her pack to the ground, Anna shed herself of all unnecessary weapons and tools, carrying nothing but the clothes on her back as she set off toward the main road, a certain assuredness in her gait that betrayed the rosy red tip of her nose and the glassy vacancy of her expression. The least she could do was give Staci a _chance_ , she owed him that much.

            In the middle of the dented, poorly paved road, she waited for them, one foot on either side of the dividing line. The tunnel was above her, just in view, and she wished she could look back, if not to see that _lone_ glimpse of freedom, then to watch _him_ leave, to see with certainty that he’d made it, but she was his eyes.

            There was no color she hated more in the world than that odd Peggie beige, trapped somewhere between cream and taupe, and it stuck up it’s nose at her as the convoy broke the hill, rolling into view at speeds that most certainly exceeded the legal limit. She waited for them, fingers itching at her sides, stomach wound into knots, her toes curling in her boots. For a moment it didn’t seem like they were going to stop, until the lead truck _screeched_ into a curve, smoke and _burnt_ rubber flooding the air as its brakes shrieked for reprieve.

            The convoy slowed, creeping to a crawl as they drew nearer, and still Anna waited. She wanted to look back, _desperately_ , she wanted to see him just one more time, but she kept her eyes forward, focused on the task at hand, her lungs welling up into her throat.

            “ _Anna_ ,” she recognized a few of them by face, but none by name, yet they clamored for her attention like old friends, their hands outstretched to her, begging her affection, and though she encouraged it, she still _withheld_ stepping backwards along the road, before darting right into the trees. Branches whipped at her cheeks as she ran, sprinting from one tier of road to the next, making her way back down that folded ribbon in a straight line, and the slam of car doors echoed down through the trees, following in her wake. Engines roared, the screech of tires over pavement as they returned to their pursuit, rumbling down the road after her, taking curves too quickly in the efforts of cutting her off, but she was _just_ fast enough to avoid them, at least—at least for a little while.

            She almost made it back down the ridge before they caught up to her, blocking her path, and she was too tired to run anymore. Too _weary_ to put up any more of a fight. Their hands were outstretched, their arms open and waiting, wanting for her to accept them, to embrace them _,_ and she did, falling into the family that awaited her, sinking into their arms. It felt like _love_ , all the acceptance she had ever needed, but when she looked back through the trees, she swore she saw a flash of green between the trunks, speeding away through the rail tunnel.

            It was enough to know that he was safe. That she’d brought him to where he’d needed be.

            It was enough.

            In warm hands she was bound, stuffed into the back of a truck, wedged firmly between those that would call her sister, and a radio was folded into her hands, the crackle and spittle of static broken only by one voice; Joseph.

            “ _Anna_ ,”

            "I want to come home."


End file.
